


Feeling Good

by SherlockianMuse



Series: The Matt and Rigby Chronicles [3]
Category: Muse, Rock Music RPF
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fangirls, Musicians, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 05:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockianMuse/pseuds/SherlockianMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt Bellamy (musician/rock star) and Eleanor 'Rigby' Foxton (curtain maker/fan girl) are in a relationship, apparently. How does that work, then?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_November 2007 (Melbourne, Australia)_

**_And this old world is a new world and a bold world for me…_ **

 

“Feeling good there, Foxton?”

 

Eleanor’s eyes fluttered open reluctantly as a low voice reached her in the foggy hinterland between sleeping and waking… and closed again immediately as a face that had no right to be there came into focus, hovering over her own. “I’m having that dream where Matt Bellamy’s in my bed again. I had it yesterday, too,” she rasped, shaking her head in denial.

 

A quiet chuckle and soft fingers smoothing deranged hair back. “Who’s to say you’re not in _my_ dream, and not the other way round? Though if it was my dream, and not yours, it’d be Mars outside the window, not Melbourne.” A small pause. “And I’m not sure your hair would be quite this scary.”

 

Quick as a flash, keen eyes were glaring up at Matt and a finger being prodded into his chest. “I _warned_ you about my hair, Bellamy. Fine way to talk to me after I turned down _Dominic Howard_ to be here. Haven’t you heard the rumours? I believe he has a fucking _huge_ … drum kit.”

 

“It’s all lies,” Matt snapped, brow furrowing in affront. “He started those rumours himself. You know how we always have socks on our rider? Well, let’s just say they’re not only for my feet, shall we?”

 

“Are you trying to imply Dom can’t fill those skinny jeans by himself?!” Eleanor cried, outraged. “I don’t believe you. Here, I bet his room’s on this floor. I’m gonna go see for myself.” And she made to get out of bed.

 

Matt grabbed her by the upper arms and rolled on top of her to prevent her escape. “Where d’you think you’re going, wench?” He enquired lazily. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. Especially not to check out the size of Dom’s… drum kit.”

 

“I know how large Dom’s drum kit is. I’ve seen it many times. I was actually going to ask if he wouldn’t mind giving me a look at his co-“

 

“Alright, alright!” Matt interjected hastily, placing a hand over her mouth. “You win, you win. Your hair looks incredible. And I was maybe lying about Dom. Though it’s been a while since I’ve seen it. It _could_ have shrunk.”

 

She removed his hand and raised an eyebrow. “Did you hear that, Bellamy? The sound of hundreds of suggestible slash bunnies screaming in glee. Piss me off too much and I may be logging on to Live Journal later on.”

 

“Bah! You should’ve seen Tom’s face when he told us about that place,” Matt muttered darkly. “The complete _bastard_.” His lips fixed in an aggrieved pout at the thought of his introduction to _Muse Slash_.

 

Unable to resist, Eleanor reached up and kissed his edible mouth, stroking his cheek soothingly. “There, there, Bellamy,” she giggled as she pulled back. “Isn’t it much better to have perverted fans than boring ones? Besides, there are plenty of stories about you and birds, too. The one where you and Dom are dodgy nightclub owners is fucking _awesome._ ”

 

“What?!” Matt barked in astonishment. “The Kirk never told us about _those_. Wait till Dom finds out! Which reminds me; I must do something nasty to him in retaliation for that phone call. However… you going to tell me where these stories are, then?”

 

“If you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll show you… one day,” Eleanor promised with a smirk.

 

“Then I’ll never see them,” Matt sighed dramatically, “’cause I am _never_ a good boy.” He grinned evilly, and Eleanor snorted in appreciation, the noise turning into a yelp of surprise as Matt disappeared under the duvet with a growl.

 

***

 

“I can’t believe you bit me on the arse, Bellamy,” Eleanor complained as she emerged naked from the bathroom half an hour later, clutching her underwear in one hand and rubbing her left buttock with the other. “That is _sooo_ petty.”

 

Matt removed the pillow that was resting over his face and grinned unrepentantly. “You said I could do anything I liked to you, _and_ you started it, so you’ve only yourself to blame, Ms Bitey.”

 

“Pfft! If you think this makes things even, you’re sorely mistaken. Now I’ll have to get you back,” she threatened, ignoring Matt’s lame attempts to lure her back to bed with a leer and a beckoning finger as she began to gather her scattered clothes.

 

Sitting up quickly as the significance of her actions registered, Matt tossed the pillow at her and hotly demanded, “What are you doing now?!”

 

Deftly avoiding the pillow and fastening her bra, she smartly replied, “Getting dressed, el stupido.”

 

“And why would you want to do something as tedious and unnecessary as that?”

 

“Because public nudity is frowned upon in most Western countries.” Eleanor sniffed her t-shirt warily, shrugged and pulled it over her head.

 

“Who’s going in public? I’m bloody ravenous. I was going to call room service for us.” Matt threw the duvet aside and moved to perch on the edge of the bed, stretching lavishly.

 

“ _I’m_ going in public,” Eleanor informed him, hiding a smile at his rumpled bed hair and tetchily scrunched face. “I need to get back to my hotel and check out before they charge me for another night.”

 

“Oh!” Matt’s face cleared at this explanation, and he watched with interest as she put her jeans on and fastened her Muse belt without bothering with her knickers first. “Not that I have a problem with it - the idea of you going commando being horny as fuck - but why aren’t you wearing any underwear, Rigby?”

 

A cheeky grin settled on Eleanor’s face as she scooped up the red and white striped garment in question and chucked it at Matt, who automatically shot out a hand to catch it. “I thought you were keeping them?” She chirped with a dirty wink.

 

Eyeing the knickers in his grasp in shock for a couple of seconds, Matt let out a great hoot of laughter and jumped to his feet, stuffing them in his bag and zipping it closed definitively. “You’ll never see them again,” he crowed, snagging Eleanor around the waist and tugging her down to sit next to him on the bed. “Are you going home today, then?”

 

“Not… exactly,” she hedged, taking Matt’s left hand between both her own and examining it carefully.

 

“Not exactly?” Matt questioned in puzzlement, taking in her rapt expression as she traced the pale blue veins shadowing the back of his hand. “What ‘exactly’ are you doing, then?”

 

“Beautiful,” Eleanor murmured, kissing his palm and gazing up at him through her lashes. “I don’t want to tell you,” she confessed in a louder voice, blushing.

 

Matt cocked an eyebrow and poked her gently in the ribs, making her squirm. “That just makes me want to know more! Tell me, Foxton,” he ordered.

 

“You tell me what you’re doing first,” Eleanor retorted, batting his hand away.

 

“If it’ll get you to talk…” There was a beat of silence as Matt dredged the tour schedule from the back of his mind. “Okay, so we’re going to Sydney this afternoon for the gig tomorrow, but then we’ve a couple of days to piss about afterwards before we fly to Brisbane, where we’ll have a bit more free time. We’ll do the show, then the next day we head to NZ for the Auckland concert before going south for the first time, which I’m real excited about,” Matt rambled. “After that we're all going to Thailand on holiday. The Bangkok gig was cancelled, obviously, but, since everything was already organised, we decided to go anyway. From there we'll hop to LA for the KROQ thingy, and then we're _finally_ going home for more than a couple of weeks.”

 

“Right,” Eleanor replied, a little distracted by Matt’s continuing nakedness. _Look up, Eleanor_ , she reprimanded herself. _Eye contact, not perving!_ “Well, Bellamy, take everything you just said up till the Thailand part, but make the flights much crappier and the hotels cheap and nasty, add a lot of queuing and swap proper meals for shitloads of muesli bars and, finally, replace you with me,” she finished, playing with her hair anxiously.

 

He gave an adorable befuddled scowl as he processed this, and Eleanor’s heart twinged yet again with that feeling that she really should _not_ be feeling, but was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. “So... what you’re saying is: you’re going to every concert on this leg of the tour?” Matt asked incredulously.

 

“Yes,” she confirmed with a wince. “Please don’t get weirded out! I’m not stalking you. Well, I’m _sort of_ stalking Muse. But it’s really not like that! You only come here every three years. I’ve got to get what I can while it’s on offer. I’d be doing it regardless of having met you, and I don’t expect any-“

 

“But this is fucking great!” Matt interrupted. “Sex! We can have heaps more of it. And we’re so _good_ at it. It’d be a crime not to. You’re still completely mental, obviously, but this insanity pleases me.” Smirking widely at a gaping Eleanor, Matt disentangled her fingers from her hair and squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Does this mean you were in Perth, too? I didn’t notice you.”

 

Eleanor nodded vaguely, mildly stunned by Matt’s easy acceptance. “Chris’ side in Perth. But I was right in front of you in Adelaide, and you didn’t notice me then, either!” She said sharply, unreasonably miffed.

 

“Rigby, I was _busy_.” But he swiftly changed the subject all the same. “So, we can hang for the next couple of weeks. Nice one! Since you’ve already booked and paid for all your flights and it’d be difficult to get you on the same ones as us anyway, you should still stick to your original travel plans, but definitely cancel all your hotels straight away and see if you can get some of your money back.”

 

“Uh... why?” Eleanor frowned.

 

“Because you’ll be staying with me, dumb arse,” Matt responded, rolling his eyes at her denseness. “Why go no star when you can go five star, eh?”

 

Mind a tad muddled, Eleanor looked away from Matt’s happy face for a short moment. Holy shit. Matt Bellamy wanted to spend the majority of the next ten days in _her_ company. And this would involve a series of luxury hotels she wouldn’t normally be allowed through the door of. Not to mention Muse. MUSE! She couldn’t even find the words to describe how much she loved them. So what the bloody fucking hell was going on here?! Had she been bowled by a bus at some point; slipping into a coma and being caught in a continuous, life-like dream, where everything Musey she’d ever idly fantasised about played out as if it were real? _Nah_ , the sensible part of her brain reasoned _, you have crap dreams, remember? Even if you were in a coma, your subconscious hasn’t the imagination to come up with something this epic. Ergo, this must be real. That’s right, Eleanor: REAL. But it’s no big deal, yeah? No. Big. Deal. Well, obviously it’s a HUGE fucking deal, but, for the sake of our pride, let’s pretend **not** , shall we? So, play it cool, you jammy bitch. Play it cool! _

Nodding to herself at this sound reasoning and really rather excellent advice, Eleanor turned back to Matt with a casual air and taunting grin. “You cocky little wanker! Who says I want to spend almost two weeks shacked up with a crackpot like you?!” She wrinkled her nose in mock horror. “Can’t think of anything worse!”

 

“Bollocks!” Matt cackled. “You’re a useless liar, Foxton. Ten days in the company of Muse?! It’s a fangirl dream come true. Dying for it, you are.” He slid his arms around her neck and pulled her close, drifting his mouth across her cheek to nibble on her earlobe. “I know I am,” he whispered.

 

“You’re going to regret being such a smug twat, Mr. Bellamy,” she breathed against his neck, hand caressing down his bare back. “You have _no idea_ what you’re letting yourself in for.” As their eyes locked and Matt’s lips nudged hers, Eleanor had a flash of self-awareness: she didn’t know what she was letting _herself_ in for, either. But she had a sneaking suspicion it would leave her an emotional wreck when he was gone.


	2. Part One

_April 2008 (London, UK)_

**_Birds flying high, you know how I feel..._ **

Matt fidgeted with impatience as he stood at the end of the fenced off Arrivals area in Terminal 3 at Heathrow, left foot jiggling without pause as his eyes flitted about nervously. Now would be a _really_ bad time to get recognised, but it always tended to happen at airports...

At the feel of a fleeting tap on his shoulder, Matt stifled a groan at the inevitability of it all, hitched a welcoming smile on his face and turned around.

“Um... hi,” a tall, blonde girl in her late teens said, blushing furiously and resolutely avoiding eye contact. “I’m _really_ sorry to bother you, Mat- Mr. Bellamy, but I’m a big Muse fan and I couldn’t miss the chance to...” She trailed off and waved a hand at him, lost for words.

“It’s no problem,” Matt assured. “And please call me Matt.” He extended a hand. “Nice to meet you...?”

Staring at his hand in disbelief for a stretched second, the girl finally took it, but dropped it as if scalded almost immediately. “I’m Mara,” she stuttered. “It’s _such_ an honour.”

“Nonsense,” Matt grunted, sneaking a look over his shoulder. Nobody coming through yet, thank God. “So, you coming to the gig at the Royal Albert Hall, Mara?”

At the sound of Matt saying her name, she blushed even deeper, but managed to answer. “Yes. I'm _so_ excited. Can't believe I managed to get tickets. Will you... Will you be playing 'Bliss', Matt? It's my favourite,” she blurted.

“You never know,” Matt said mysteriously. “I'm actually waiting for someone, Mara,” he continued gently, hearing a sudden increase in activity behind him. “So did you want a photo or anything?”

“Oh, God! Sorry,” she stammered, frantically pawing through her bag. “A photo would be so awesome, Matt. Where is...?” Letting out a relieved breath, Mara smiled shyly at Matt as she pulled out her camera. “I'll just get...” Looking to the left, she hissed loudly at a middle-aged woman waiting patiently a few metres away. “Mum! Photo. Quick!” And shoved the camera at her as she hurried forward.

Not yet having spotted Rigby in the stream of people now issuing from Arrivals, Matt smiled politely at the girl's mother and put his arm around Mara's shoulder in traditional fan picture fashion. She squeaked and shuddered at the contact, but Matt spared her by pretending not to notice. Placing a tentative hand on his waist, Mara nodded at her mother, glanced at Matt in sheer astonishment and then grinned widely at the camera. There was a flash, and the photo was taken.

Getting a little anxious now, Matt hastily scrawled his autograph on the piece of paper the girl proffered before shaking both her and her mother's hands. Wishing Mara a good time at the RAH show, he darted away to search for the distinctive mane of untamed hair in the throng; fan encounter instantly forgotten. He marvelled at his pathetic nervousness as he was jostled while moving through the crowd, not having seen Eleanor in months (though not through lack of effort on _his_ part, the stubborn bitch!). Sure, they talked on the phone and by webcam, texted and e-mailed constantly, but it really wasn't the same. What if the chemistry, the easy rapport, they shared, didn't translate to this new environment?

“Fuck's sake, Bellamy,” Matt muttered to himself, scanning the horde of humanity. “Turned into a fucking girl, or what? It'll be...” He made abrupt, intense contact with a pair of mischievously twinkling hazel eyes. “... all good,” he finished in a whisper, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking an eyebrow.

Eleanor, travel-soiled, sleep-deprived and grouchy as fuck, was finding it very difficult indeed not to grin like a foot fetishist who'd just gotten a job at a women’s shoe shop at the sight of Matt Bellamy waiting for _her_. The mantra she'd been desperately repeating since her first plane took off - _Don't get too attached, don't get too attached!_ \- faded into silence. Who was she trying to kid? Her attachment was limpet-like and had been since the moment he'd sought her out in that crowd, asking for more. But it was going to hurt _so much_ when she was eventually wrenched away; it was easier to pretend. The alarming shortness of his hair helped, though. _The silly git shouldn't be allowed near a hairdresser without supervision!_

 _The poor thing looks shattered_ , Matt thought sympathetically. Two days straight travelling in economy class would do that to you. She was so fucking stroppy she'd refused to let him pay for an upgrade. Large shadows bruised her eyes, and there was an exhausted slump to her shoulders.

Finally reaching him, Eleanor drew to a stop, luggage trolley held protectively in front of her, and they studied each other in silence for a moment. “Why do I always look like a sodding hobo every time we meet like this?” She eventually asked with a pained smile.

“Come now, Foxton,” Matt responded with a lascivious curve of the lips. “You know how I love it when you're all disheveled.” And he stepped around the trolley and pulled her into his arms. “It is so fucking _good_ to see you, woman,” he breathed fiercely against her ear.

Winding her own arms around his neck, Eleanor clung on tight and let her body relax into his. “Oh, Bellamy, the feeling's mutual,” she sighed.

They just held each other for a while, each getting reacquainted with the physical presence of the other, until Matt tugged on Eleanor's hair and she eased her head back. Nose to nose, they both smiled foolishly for a second before Matt leaned in for a deep and claiming kiss.

Things were getting a tad out of control, arrest for gross public indecency the next step, when Eleanor had a sudden, unwelcome attack of decorum and tore herself away with a gasp, pupils dilated and lips swollen. “Airport porno, Matt?” She panted, resolutely ignoring the many amused/horrified looks being thrown their way. “You could at least wait until we're in the disabled stall of the ladies toilets!”

“Is that an option, then?” Matt enquired enthusiastically, straightening her top for her.

“I'm afraid not,” Eleanor replied after a few calming breaths. “The mind is, as ever, more than willing, but the flesh is weak. I'm too knackered to shag. Take me home and talk to me again in twelve hours. I'll probably be up for it by then. You'll have to do all the work, though.”

“I've got _no_ problem with that,” Matt announced, picking up her coat and handing it to her. “Here, put this on before we go. It's freezing out there. Spring, my arse.”

Doing as instructed, ridiculously pleased with the thoughtful gesture, Eleanor grabbed Matt by the arm once she was buttoned up and hauled him close. Placing a lingering kiss on the fine arch of one cheekbone, she giggled quietly. “I know a man has 'needs', Bellamy, so do feel free to take advantage of me while I'm asleep. I doubt I'll wake up, and I'll sleep naked and like a starfish to make it easier.”

Matt's face went blank momentarily, reanimating as his infectious high-pitched cackle rang out, attracting the attention of everyone in a 10-metre radius. “Oh, I did miss you, my naughty wench,” he managed to get out, eyes bright with mirth. He took Eleanor's hand in his own, placing both on the handle of her luggage trolley. “Hurry up, then,” he instructed, nudging her hip with his own to get her moving. “We need to get you home and to sleep. There's no time to waste.”

As they strolled companionably towards the exit, neither of them noticed Mara observing with great interest.

***

Matt's flat was located in a 'fuck off, you piece of cash-deprived crud' building in Central London. Leaving him to deal with her suitcase on arrival, though there was a distinct possibility it was heavier than he was, Eleanor promptly started investigating, her unstoppable curiosity overriding her need to get horizontal for the moment.

The place was spacious, but not extravagantly so. Two bedrooms, what was obviously once a third now given over to Matt's music, a preposterous number of gleaming bathrooms strikingly tiled in red, white and black and an enormous open-plan living area with a space-age kitchen at one end, floor to ceiling windows at the other and a gracious black Kawai piano in the middle. Eleanor had a minor meltdown at the thought of watching it being played with no one else there.

“'I'm not a millionaire, I swear!',” she mocked Matt as she shot past him in the hallway. “Lying is a sin, you know.”

“How do you know I don't just have a cripplingly huge mortgage?!” Matt called after her.

“But you claim not to trust large financial institutions. Having a big mortgage would make you a hypocrite. I'd prefer it if you were just a liar, quite frankly,” Eleanor hollered back, continuing with her 'Redness Ratio' check, i.e. how much of the place was red compared to any other colour. As she'd suspected, it was hovering around 2:1. Red couches, red curtains, red rugs, red cupboards in the kitchen, red carpet in some places. She arrived back in the master bedroom, which was painted a jaw-dropping whore red only saved from oppression by the loftiness of the ceiling and the fact that all the soft furnishings were a blinding white.

As she felt her feet sink into the midnight black carpet, Eleanor gleefully kicked off her shoes and socks and padded about on it, savouring the plushness between her toes.

Matt finally dragged her suitcase in to find her systematically stripping the clothes from her body and ditching them on the floor. He dumped his burden in the corner with a grunt and raised an intrigued eyebrow, mouth curling at the corners almost imperceptibly.

“Don't get any ideas,” Eleanor warned, now clad only in her knickers as she crouched down to zip open the suitcase and extract her TARDIS-like toilet bag. “I'm too skanky, even for you.”

“Surely I should be the judge of that,” Matt protested, idly perving.

“Stop staring at my tits, Bellamy,” Eleanor scolded, but made no attempt to cover up. “Right, which of the dozens of showers in this gaff has the best water pressure? I want to be pounded into the wall, it's so hard.”

Eyes glinting, Matt's mouth dropped open to respond.

“Ugh! I know, I know!” Eleanor forestalled him with a raised hand. “But you can't respond to that, it's too easy. I must be off my game because I'm so shagged out.”

He got as far as, “Well-” before Eleanor realised her second slip and smited herself in the forehead, groaning loudly. “I'm not talking to you anymore, you sleazy so-and-so! Which. Shower?!”

Smirking wickedly, Matt pointed to a closed door behind her. “Need a hand, Rigby? You're so exhausted, I'd be happy to help out. You could just stand there while I wash you.”

“'Wash' me? Is that what they're calling it these days?” She teased, brushing past Matt to open the bathroom door. “I'm going to have to decline your generous offer, as I'm feeling about as sexy as a eunuch just after the chop.”

“Fine, you awful prick tease,” Matt huffed. “D'you want something to eat when you're done, then?”

“God, yes,” Eleanor declared, batting her lashes as she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Something involving a cow's entire year's production of cheese.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Matt laughingly promised, eyes wandering south. “Probably best to lock the door there, Foxton. I'm not sure I can control myself.”

Eleanor giggled, wiggling out of her underwear one-handed as she held her toilet bag in the other, throwing them on the pile on the floor. Winking provocatively at Matt, she swung into the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it behind her.

When she emerged clad in a (red) towel half an hour later, swaying slightly on her feet from a combination of tiredness and the heat of the shower, Eleanor found her discarded clothes gone, the curtains drawn, casting the room in shadow bar the light spilling in from the hallway and bathroom, and the covers of the bed pulled back invitingly. She was still standing there, cooing quietly to herself about Matt's all-round wonderfulness, when he arrived carrying a tray.

“What's that look for?” Matt questioned on clocking her dopey smile.

“Ooh, nothing. Think I must've lost a few brain cells in the air,” Eleanor dismissed airily, dropping the towel and nabbing a light robe from the top of her suitcase. “Is that my cheese fix, then?”

“Yes. The cow's in the kitchen, looking positively _drained_.” Matt put the tray down and switched on a lamp. “Get in the bed then, witch. You look like you're about to faint, and you're a fetching pink all over.”

“I know,” Eleanor replied ruefully, patting her flushed cheeks. “I didn't mean to spend so long in there, but I kind of fell asleep leaning against the wall for about ten minutes. I only woke up because I was about to fall over.” She tied the robe loosely at her waist and hauled herself on to the mattress, slipping her legs between the sheets as Matt fussed about propping pillows behind her so she could sit up to eat. “What have you got for me, Bellamy?” She grinned winningly up at him, quite overtaken by how pleased she was to be in his presence again.

“Gnocchi with an artery-clogging, rich cheese sauce,” Matt informed her with a 'haven't I done well?' smile. “I know you like gnocchi, and I've not had much practice at preparing it, so I decided to have a go at making it this morning. Turned out nice.” And he placed the (red) tray on her lap with a flourish.

Eleanor got one whiff of the mouth-watering dish in front of her and yanked a hovering Matt down to her level by the front of his t-shirt. “I solemnly swear to service you like a high-class hooker just as soon as I get my mojo back, you total darling,” she growled before roughly snogging the surprised man. Swiftly recovering, Matt grabbed Eleanor by the nape of the neck and took over, tilting her head to the side and dominating her mouth with his own.

Pulling away with a harsh nip to her bottom lip, he lent his forehead against hers as he supported himself with one arm braced against the headboard, eyes half-lidded and sultry. “This... _this_ is why I kept nagging you until you agreed to come visit. I've never met anyone else who says that sort of thing to me unprompted.” He chuckled disbelievingly. “You and your depraved brain are so fucking _sexy_ , Rigby.”

“Mmmm... Matt,” Eleanor hummed, running one hand up and down his back as he bent over her. “You're far too good to me. Last time I came to London I had to haul my own, practically-catatonic-with-fatigue, arse across London on the Tube with far more luggage to get to a revolting, over-priced hostel where I had to share a room with a fat, smelly Irishman with nudity issues.”

“So this is better?” Matt asked, feigning confusion as he toyed with her damp hair.

“Ever so slightly,” she confirmed, pushing gently at his chest. “Now, get out of my way so I can eat. Never come between a Foxton and their dinner.”

“Sounds like advice I should remember,” Matt pondered, pecking between her brows and straightening up. “Okay, I'll leave you alone with your precious cheese. Just put the tray on the floor when you're finished and go to sleep. If you need anything, shout.”

Matt was almost out the door when Eleanor softly spoke his name, and he turned back to find her staring at him uncertainly, appearing young and vulnerable in her exhausted state; not her usual arse-kickingly vibrant self at all. It was a whole new side of her, and he was glad he was seeing it. “What is it, Rigby love?”

“Nothing. I... I just wanted to say that I... missed you, Matt. Quite a bit.” She ducked her head in embarrassment.

“Well, I missed you _more_ than quite a bit, Eleanor,” Matt replied easily, and when she looked up he gave her his cute, crooked grin. “Make sure you take that robe off before you pass out, though.”

***

Eleanor blinked awake to hushed darkness hours later. Disorientated, sensing she was in unfamiliar surroundings, she scrabbled around at the bedside until she managed to switch on the lamp, flooding the room with a cool yellow glow. The slight weight of a hand resting on her stomach caught her attention as her eyes adjusted, and she followed one leanly muscled arm flung behind a warm body up to an exquisitely formed set of pointed shoulder blades clothed in flawless porcelain skin; ruffled toffee-brown hair and a temptingly biteable white neck displayed on the pillow above.

“Oh,” she murmured to herself, lips stretching into a self-satisfied smile. “Well, that explains everything.” Flexing limbs weighed down with tiredness, Eleanor rubbed her eyes and silently cursed the International Date Line. She was awake now and likely to stay that way, even though she was in dire need of more sleep.

“There're very few men on this planet worth all this trouble, Matthew,” she muttered out loud, earning a reflexive twitch of his fingers at the noise. “You just happen to be one of them,” Eleanor finished on a sigh, lightly stroking Matt's lustrous hair.

3.27am, according to the alarm clock. “Fuck's sake. Fucking jet lag.” Pushing the thing aside contemptuously, Eleanor let her gaze wander around the gloom-shrouded room. She was in Matt Bellamy's bedroom... Fucking hell, she was in Matt Bellamy's _bed_! Fangirl meltdown! _Funny_ , she thought as she examined it, _I was **so** sure the perv would have a four poster. Still, this headboard looks very... sturdy, and has ample 'anchoring' points._

An indecipherable murmur into the pillow from Matt as she was thinking this had Eleanor giggling, like he _knew_ what was crossing her mind and wanted in on the action. Shifting slightly on to her side in the luxuriously fine sheets, careful not to dislodge his hand, she ran her eyes over the sharp lines of his exposed back. Hmmm... _action_. She _was_ irretrievably awake and he _was_ illegally gorgeous, she hadn't had a shag since she last saw him and, while she definitely wasn't capable of anything particularly energetic, he _had_ agreed to do all the work.

Nosing her face into the curve of his - genetically-engineered-by-aliens-to-be-perfect - neck, Eleanor took a large sniff. Oh, sweet mother of God, that smell! Overcome with the need for more, she lapped greedily at the skin of his throat with her tongue. By Christ, she'd been pining after that taste for months! Matt's breath caught in response, the hand now positioned on her hip clutching involuntarily at her through the covers.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eleanor whispered, scooting closer until the front of her body was plastered to the back of his, nipples contracting at the contact. Matt groaned throatily, legs stirring as she slid a hand under the duvet and down across his ever-so-slightly-rounded stomach, but he didn't wake up. She caressed his smooth torso for a while and then rested her hand over his heart in an effort to feel the slow, hypnotic beat of it before nibbling at his earlobe with her teeth. His whole body jerked, rubbing enticingly against her hyper-sensitive breasts, and she gasped, breath speeding in arousal.

Molesting Matt Bellamy in his sleep was turning her on unbearably, another vague fangirl fantasy fulfilled ( _Oh, how many women would want to run me through with a sword if they knew about this?!_ ), but nothing compared to when he was an active participant in the molestation. Deciding to take the matter in hand, as it were, Eleanor grasped his semi-tumescent cock decisively. “Eyes open, Bellamy,” she purred loudly in his ear.

He flailed briefly as he was startled into wakefulness, and Eleanor grinned into his hair as his God-given arse writhed against her crotch. “What the fuck?!” Matt demanded with a whimper, turning his head awkwardly on the pillow to look back over his shoulder as his pulse raced in shock and his shaft swelled in her hand. “Rigby?!” He questioned, clearly only half-aware of what was going on.

“Bells,” she responded seriously.

“Have you...” Matt cleared his throat and tried again. “Have you got your hand on my cock?”

“I have indeed. It's one of its favourite places to be.”

Lifting the covers, Matt peered down to check. “You're not fibbing. I'd recognise it anywhere.” Letting the duvet fall back, he wriggled on to his back so he could look at her more easily. “Why are you even awake?”

“Jetlag's kicked in. I'm up and likely to stay that way until I crash and burn with no warning whatsoever. Thought I should find some way to amuse myself.”

“So you've been feeling me up in my sleep?!”

Head propped on her arm and hand still in place, Eleanor nodded with shameless pride.

“I thought it was one of my blissfully horny Rigby dreams,” Matt confessed. Eyes taking in her lust-clouded expression and the pert pinkness of her swollen nipples, he licked his lips and twitched in her hot palm as she idly fingered his now full erection. “This is _much_ better.”

“You have 'Rigby dreams'?!” Eleanor gaped.

“Of course. Why, d'you _not_ have Matt dreams?”

“ _Of course_ I do! Only difference is, I was having them before I actually met you. Well, not sleep dreams, I only seem to properly dream about incredibly lame things. But day dreams, definitely. I have Matt _day_ dreams constantly,” she babbled. “They've improved _a lot_ since November.”

Now totally conscious and raring to go, Matt smirked up at her. “How encouraging. Right, so is this cock/hand proximity going anywhere?”

Squeezing tightly enough to have Matt's eyes rolling back in his head and hips bucking up in search of more, Eleanor took her time replying as she studied his face, the rising colour in his cheeks. “It certainly is. Though I would've liked our reunion fuck to be a spectacularly debauched and filthy affair - possibly involving a call from the neighbours to the police about all the tortured wailing - I'm still not up to moving anything more than my arms. Sorry.”

“What are you apologising for?!” Matt panted incredulously. “I get to roger you for the first time in _months_. I really don't care _how_ at this point.” He reluctantly removed Eleanor's hand and rolled her on to her back. “Get nice and comfy for me there, Foxton,” he ordered, eyes glowing like sapphires above her in the low light. “Think _starfish_.”

Cackling madly as Matt sifted through the drawer on his side of the bed, Eleanor positioned herself in the middle with great care, placing a pillow under her head before spreading her legs wide and flinging her arms to either side.

“Like this?” She enquired innocently when Matt turned back, condom already in place. Damn, he was fast!

“Correct first time! Someone's been studying their echinoderms,” he praised like a proud teacher, manoeuvering back under the covers and between her legs. He stroked up the inside of her thigh as he moved up over her until their faces were level.

Matt's fingers were playing along the thin skin that covered the join between her leg and her groin, weight supported on one arm as he necklaced her throat with kisses, when Eleanor stopped his hand. “No,” she moaned, the atmosphere morphing from playful to thick and heady like the the thoughtless switching of a TV channel. “Just... come inside, Matt. Come inside me straight away. Need it.”

“Need it, too, Eleanor love,” he breathed into the shell of her ear, and with no hesitation at all he was there, gliding deep inside her with a languid roll of his hips. “Ahhh... Need it, too.”

“Holy hell.” Wincing at the delicious pain, her arms lifted to curl around his back with a will of their own. It had been a while, and he really did have a sizeable cock for a man so slight.

Holding himself still, letting her adjust, refamiliarise herself, Matt's rapid breaths tickled over her face as he stared down at her with heavy eyes. “Mmmm... You're _very_ tight, Rigby. Like a fucking _vice_ down there.” He twitched his hips the tiniest fraction and Eleanor choked, burrowing her head further into the pillow. “Are you out of practice, my dear?”

“You were the last person there, Bellamy,” she whimpered. “How could I settle for less after I'd known what it was like to be taken by you?”

His prolonged, pleasured groan washed across Eleanor's cheek as he slowly started to move, sliding himself out and back in again almost reverently. “Fuck me, I can't get enough of listening to you talk.”

“That'll be your rampaging ego, how it adores the boost,” she said on a stuttering laugh as her eyes fluttered shut, all her attention needed to focus on the long-desired return of Matt inside her. “Pity I'm telling the truth. The only person who's been making me come lately is me.”

“Christ!” Matt whined, bringing a hand up to palm a breast possessively as his erection _throbbed_ at her words. “Keep talking.”

“Of course,” Eleanor continued softly, fingers drifting down his back to clutch at his bottom, “I've been thinking of you as I do it. Just the _thought_ of your cock anywhere near me - in my hand, in my mouth, inside me - is more than enough to have me squirming, and so, _so_ wet... before I've done anything at all.”

Matt's hips increased in speed, the angle shifting slightly so he was going deeper, but the pace was still relatively easy, fostering a slowly building intensity. Eleanor figured that as she didn't have the wherewithal to respond to Matt physically, she'd just have to ravish him verbally instead.

“Are you thinking about me getting off thinking about you, Matt?” She teased, tracing the outline of one bony hip. “Do you enjoy that idea? It's not like I'm the only woman who does it. There are hundreds, possibly thousands of women who do. It's just they don't have any personal experience to go on like I do.”

“You are a dirty, _dirty_ bitch, Foxton,” Matt reprimanded with an appreciative giggle, pinching her nipple harshly to get her to open her eyes and look at him. “With an obscenely warped mind and a tenuous grip on sanity. But you're _my_ dirty bitch, and I have missed you, and your fondness for my cock, a dangerous amount.”

“Yeah you have!” Eleanor grinned tauntingly up at him, mustering the energy to raise her legs and encircle his waist, digging her heels into the small of his back to encourage him to thrust harder. “You're pretty good, Bellamy, but you secretly know that I'm even better.”

“Oh, I do, do I?” Matt questioned, pausing in his movements to keep himself deep and then _grinding_ his hips, pushing his tip against the spot inside her that made Eleanor swear incoherently and thrash her head from side to side in agitated excitement.

“Ahhh... oh, shit, cunt, bollocks... ah ha. You _know,_ ” Eleanor managed to get out, fingers clutching desperately at Matt's shoulders. “All I do is make curtains and listen to Muse, and I'm _still_ wicked cool and fantastic.”

“That you... fucking hell, so fucking tight... that you are, Rigby,” Matt freely admitted, resuming the determined undulation of his hips as he felt his orgasm gradually pooling at the base of his spine.

“I. Knew. It.” Eleanor gasped, burning numbness seeping through her limbs. “Fuck, Matt, need your weight on me. Let go and smother me,” she pleaded, tugging at the arm he had braced against the bed until he collapsed against her, covering her body completely.

“Your tits crushed against my chest,” Matt groaned, raining sucking kisses everywhere his mouth could reach. “I've been looking forward to feeling that again.”

“You can.... feel anything... you want,” she panted, running her hands through his too short hair. “Just make me come first. I... reckon I could go back to sleep after that.”

“Selfish cow,” he accused jokingly. “Only after sex as an aid to sleep.”

“Guilty,” Eleanor sobbed. “Ugh, just a little bit... more.”

She was tensing up beneath him; yielding curves suddenly rigid, legs twitching against his back, walls tightening even further around his cock. “More?” Matt whispered, using his knees as leverage to ease out until he was almost entirely removed from her addictively moist and warm depths.

“Fuck _yes_.”

“Okay,” Matt said simply, plunging back in one, two, three times in quick succession. On the third penetration he lifted his head and fastened his mouth over Eleanor's, tongue slipping inside, and she slipped into orgasm as a result, back arching, achingly fulfilled moan muffled by his lips.

As Eleanor rocked wildly under him, Matt was paralysed by his own abrupt completion, thrusting halted as he came violently and intensely, his skin inadequate to the task of containing everything he was feeling. He tore his mouth away from Eleanor and cried out in complete satisfaction before burying his face in her hair, and they lay shuddering against each other for several long moments, the only sound in the room their laboured breathing.

“Mmmm... that was definitely worth the 20,000km trip,” Eleanor chuckled eventually, nuzzling into Matt's neck. “And it wasn't even with me on top form! I still owe you that servicing, by the way.”

“Like I'm going to forget _that_ ,” Matt replied, throat dry and raspy. “Fuck, I need a drink. Want one?”

“Sure.” Eleanor dropped her legs from around Matt and stretched them along the bed. “Crap. The lack of practice is a bitch. I'm going to ache tomorrow.”

“Was that a complaint?” Matt asked with a pout as he prised himself off and out of her, tossed the covers back and staggered upright to shuffle to the bathroom.

“ _So_ not at you, Bellamy,” she assured as he reemerged without the condom and holding a large glass of water, which he gulped from thirstily before passing to her. Eleanor held herself up on an elbow to take a few sips and returned it, falling back on the mattress in a wasted heap. “Shag therapy is surprisingly effective,” she murmured, twisting to get comfortable. “I'm _so_ ready to go back to sleep.”

“Go on, then, Rigby,” Matt urged, drinking the last of the water and putting the glass down. Leaning forward, he rearranged the pillows and straightened the duvet, then turned off the light and climbed back into bed himself.

Eleanor immediately abandoned her previous position to mold herself to the side of his body, head cushioned on his chest. “Back to sleep this instant,” Matt lectured in a firm tone, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and settling down for the night. “Or I'll never write a new song/make the beast with two backs with you/let you have my fabulous pasta ever again. Whichever is worst.”

“I can't decide. They're all unthinkably horrid,” Eleanor slurred, stirring unresponsive fingers to tangle with his. “Think I'll just pass out instead.”

“Wise move.”


	3. Part Two

_April 2008 (London, UK)_

**_Sleep in peace_ **

**_When the day is done..._ **

****

It was past midday and Eleanor was still dead to the world in the bedroom. Matt had woken a few hours earlier to find she'd burrowed down under the covers in the night and was lying diagonally across the bed with her head pillowed on his stomach, face towards him. He'd spent a gratifying few minutes holding the duvet up just to watch her face when it wasn't in motion; no acerbic remark ready to escape from those pouty lips, the all-knowing twinkle that usually illuminated those pretty eyes hidden by her closed lids. She'd commented once on how innocent _he_ looked when asleep, and the same applied to her - when not awake, Eleanor was positively _cute_. Imagining her disgust if he ever told her that had made him grin, and he would've liked to have stayed there with her for a while longer, but he'd been dying for a piss, so he'd delicately removed himself from under Rigby and substituted his torso with a pillow. She'd whimpered and her brow had wrinkled at the disruption, but she hadn't stirred. Matt had settled the covers back over her (leaving an amusingly-shaped hillock in the middle of the bed), collected some clothes and left her to it, pulling the door closed as he trotted off to use one of the other bathrooms.

 

He'd made a banana smoothie for brunch, turned his phone back on to find several text messages from Dom demanding to know if  his 'darling Rigby' had arrived safely (to which he'd replied: _Miss Rigby is in residence and in MY bed. Bog off and get your own fangirl, Howard!_ ), collected and perused some deeply tedious mail and was now sprawled in an armchair in the living room faffing about on his laptop; pandering to his rampant paranoia while he waited for Foxton to get the fuck up.

 

A report on a top secret US Military installation in the middle of the Australian outback that had conspiracy theorists foaming at the mouth on one website kept Matt's attention for a while, but he found his mind drifting as mention of Australia reminded him of just how he'd discovered where exactly Rigby was from.

 

_November 2007 (Brisbane, Australia)_

“Explain to me again why you can't watch from the side of the stage, Rigby?” Matt asked, running a hand through his hair in exasperation.

 

“Because real fans get down and dirty in the moshpit,” Eleanor answered serenely. “It's much more fun down there. Besides, I feel guilty enough as it is that I don't have to queue to get to the front. Getting to watch from the side of the stage purely because I'm giving you the ride seems like too much. It's unfair to all the other loyal Musers.”

 

“Don't be stu- wait a minute, did you just say you were 'giving me the ride'?!” Matt gaped.

 

“I did.”

 

“And what the hell does _that_ mean?!”

 

“That I'm screwing you, you silly arse,” Eleanor told him, stifling a giggle. “It's an expression an Irish mate of mine uses. Isn't it great?”

 

“So a 'ride' is a shag, then?” Eleanor nodded. “That's actually quite a nifty word,” Matt murmured, filing it away in his mental dictionary. “So, will you be 'giving me the ride' later on, then?” He leered.

 

“Yeah, probably,” Eleanor said with a casual shrug. “I think Dom's busy, anyway.”

 

Matt's eyes flashed as she gazed at him with a demure smile that might fool a passing stranger, but wouldn't wash with anyone who'd spent more than three minutes in her company. “You. Are. Evil, Miss Foxton,” he informed her matter-of-factly, seizing her by the wrist and pulling her towards him, “and must be punished.”

 

“Is that supposed to be some sort of threat?” Eleanor questioned smartly, running the fingertips of her free hand up and down his bare arm teasingly. “Sounds bloody horny, quite frankly.”

 

This sort of conversation had characterised the last few days they'd spent together, which meant that the last few days had been a fiendish amount of fun. Rigby was intelligent, erudite, had a keen sense of the absurd and was ever-so-slightly out of her mind, which gave her an air of unpredictability he found thrilling. He hadn't the faintest idea what she'd do or say next in any situation, and while they rarely seemed to stop talking, Matt still found it difficult to discern what she was really thinking. Except during sex. Then, well... she was exceedingly easy to read. Passionate and unfettered by tiresome shame in the bedroom, they were an ideal physical match.

 

At times he even forgot she was a fan. Not that Eleanor tried to hide it, of course - wandering around in Muse t-shirts, wearing her Muse belt, always with a Muse badge on her bra; all without apology - but she didn't fawn, she didn't interrogate and she'd not requested a song in anything but jest since she'd gotten 'The Groove'.

 

So, until gig time rolled around, her fangirl status faded into the background and she was just this unfeasibly cool and foxy woman he was having a bit of a holiday fling with. And that was absolutely, categorically all it was: a holiday fling... _right_?

 

But the gig was the reason they were having this discussion in the first place, because when the show was involved, Rigby was 100% fangirl. She insisted on watching from the pit, which meant she had to go three or four hours before they went on so she could slip down when the doors were opened and blend in with the crowd. So she couldn't have dinner with him, they couldn't nip back to the hotel for a pre-gig romp and they lost out on valuable time together. The days were flying past, and, to paraphrase a wise man, time was sodding well running out.

 

“Look, stop trying to distract me,” Matt reprimanded, and Eleanor shoved her hand in her pocket and tried to appear serious. “As fascinating a subject as your need for punishment is - and I can assure you we _will_ be coming back to it later - we should get back to the point. Which is - we've only got two shows left, so I'm asking you to _please_ watch from the side of the stage at least once.”

 

Eleanor's mouth dropped open to protest before she thought better of it and shut it again. She stood in silence for fifteen seconds before rolling her eyes in resignation and finally speaking. “Alright already,” she gave in, crossing her arms over her chest and looking put upon. “I'll go side of stage in Christchurch, seeing as it's the last show. Happy, Bellamy?”

 

“Yes. Very,” Matt replied with scarcely concealed smugness.

 

“Twat,” Eleanor muttered. “Making me feel like a traitor. And for what?! An extra few hours to... hmmm, now that I think about it, an extra few hours could be very _useful_.”

 

“See, not just a pretty face,” Matt crowed, tilting his head to the side and pouting like an aftershave ad model.

 

“Christ. Never do that again,” Eleanor ordered, putting a hand over her eyes as if to shield herself from something frightening. “The key to your smokin' hotness is your seeming lack of effort. When you _try_ and be sexy, you completely lose it.”

 

Matt was pouting for real now. “Jesus, you're mean. Remind me why I wanted you to stick around, will you?”

 

“Like _I_ know,” she scoffed. “Figured you took a blow to the head in Adelaide and still haven't recovered.”

 

“That _would_ explain a lot...” Matt smirkingly agreed, pretending to check his scalp for tell-tale lumps. He lent forward so the back of his head was in Eleanor's line of sight. “Here, d'you see anything?”

 

“I will in a minute,” she said in a menacing tone, then slapped him across the nape of the neck.

 

“Fucking ouch!” Matt complained, slumping back on to the hotel suite's couch and staring up at her like a kicked puppy. “I thought we were punishing _you_.”

 

“Details, details,” Eleanor dismissed. Matt rubbed at the tender spot below his hairline and sniffed pathetically. “Oh, for the love of...” She circled around behind him and draped herself over the back of the couch. Clasping her arms around Matt's shoulders, she showered his neck with soothing kisses. “Better?”

 

“Slightly,” Matt grunted. “You're quite a nasty piece of work, aren't you, Rigby?”

 

“Oh, yes,” Eleanor readily admitted. “I've a rather violent disposition when provoked. And I do so enjoy the sound you get when you give someone a good slap.” She was stroking his chest now, breathing softly against the sensitive patch of skin behind his left ear, the one that made him twitch; which she'd discovered by chance a couple of nights earlier and been exploiting ever since.

 

Writhing helplessly in his seat, trying not to giggle as her fingers drifted under his arms, Matt tipped his head until their eyes met. “Were you lying about what you do for a living? Are you actually a dominatrix?”

 

“I'm not, but I'll keep it in mind if I ever feel like a change of career,” Eleanor laughed. They snogged leisurely for a long moment and then she pulled back and lifted Matt's wrist to look at his watch. “I've got to get organised. My flight leaves before yours, remember? I've arranged for the airport shuttle to pick me up soon.”

 

“Bugger,” Matt said moodily. “Are you going to wait for us to arrive at the other end? We're only an hour or so behind you. Then you won't have to make your own way to the hotel.” He tugged on her arm, and she took the hint and hopped over the rear of the couch to straddle his lap.

 

“Sure,” Eleanor replied once settled, Matt's hands resting easily at her waist. “I've got a book to keep me entertained.” She swiped at her forehead theatrically. “I'll be glad to get to New Zealand and away from all this heat, to tell the truth. Not even summer yet and it's already scorching. This feckin' country.”

 

“What?” He responded disbelievingly. “An Australian complaining that it's _too_ hot?!”

 

Eleanor stiffened in his arms, eyes narrowing to slits. “What did you just call me?”

 

“Ah... an Australian?” Matt could tell he'd done something very, _very_ wrong, but he hadn't a clue what it was.

 

“Bellamy,” she addressed him in an ominous whisper, “you know your support band, the Checks?”

 

“Eh?” He was totally lost. “Of course I do.”

 

“Okay, where are the Checks from?”

 

“New Zealand. But I don't-”

 

“Where am _I_ from?” Eleanor interrupted silkily.

 

“Aus-” Sudden, cripplingly realisation hit Matt, and he closed his eyes in embarrassment. “You're not Australian, are you?”

 

“No.”

 

“You're a New Zealander, aren't you?” He cautiously opened one eye to find her nodding her head emphatically and shut it again immediately. “ _Shit_.”

 

Half a minute of excruciating silence as Matt tried and failed to come up with a way to make up for this monumental balls up. He'd spent enough time in this part of the world to know just how touchy the two nationalities could get if you got them confused. Eleanor hadn't moved, seemingly paralysed with indignation.

 

Matt was mustering himself to say something, _anything_ , when Eleanor bet him to it. “Oh my God, I am such a _slut_.”

 

His eyes flew open in shock. “What?! You're not a slut! What are you talking about?!”

 

“I am. I'm a total tramp,” Eleanor declared, eyes wide. “I've had your cock in my mouth on multiple occasions, and you didn't even know what country I was from. If that doesn't make me a whore, I don't know what does.”

 

Pausing fractionally to marvel yet again at her astonishing bluntness, Matt hastily waded in. “No, no, no! You're not a slut, a tramp or a whore, believe me. This is my fault. I can't really tell the difference between the accents and I just assumed since we were in Australia, that you were...”

 

“Australian? Well, I'm fucking not,” she fumed, cheeks red.

 

“I am _so_ sorry,” Matt rambled, hands gesticulating wildly. “I really am. You never brought it up, but I never asked, which was crap of me. I'm a self-involved prick. Please don't be mad. Well, okay, obviously you're mad, but please don't _stay_ mad. I didn't mean to upset you. And you are _so_ not a slut. You're an incredibly classy woman. I mean, you wouldn't give me a blow job in the back of the car in Melbourne. If that doesn't scream 'not a tramp', Dom doesn't wear gay pants and-”

 

“Dom _doesn't_ wear gay pants,” Eleanor butted in.

 

“Come on! Dom's pants are super gay!”

 

“Just because Dom's pants are brightly coloured does not make them gay. You wear red pants. Is that not gay?”

 

“No. There's _nothing_ gay about red pants,” Matt stated confidently.

 

“Then why are yellow and green pants gay?”

 

“Because... they just are!” Matt cried. “Look, why are we talking about Dom's pants? Aren't I meant to be grovelling so I can still get in yours?”

 

“Oh, so you reckon there's still a possibility of that ever happening again, do you?” Eleanor enquired with a scathingly arched eyebrow.

 

“Well, you're still sitting in my lap, aren't you?”

 

“I can soon fix that,” Eleanor told him. “Me and my whorish _Australian_ arse will just be going.” And she attempted to stand.

 

Matt grabbed at her hips and held her down. “No, don't go,” he pleaded as she wriggled rather distractingly against him. “You and your fine, respectable, _New Zealand_ arse stay right here and tell me where exactly you're from. I want to know. I should have asked earlier.”

 

Rigby stopped trying to get up and stared at him assessingly, eventually levering his hand off her to look at his watch once more. “There's no time. The shuttle will be here in ten and I have to pack. If you're an extremely fortunate arrogant wanker, I'll be waiting at Auckland Airport this evening and willing to reveal all.”

 

“And if I'm an extremely _un_ fortunate arrogant wanker?”

 

“Then I'll be waiting at Auckland Airport... with a pointy stick.” She smiled widely, but it was the polar opposite of reassuring. Matt gulped. “Now kindly remove your hands, Bellamy.”

 

Doing as asked, he held them above his head in surrender as Eleanor got to her feet. “Did I mention I was sorry, Rigby love?” Matt called after her as she headed towards the suite's bedroom.

 

“Oh, you will be,” she replied.

 

***

 

“Just how thick are you, Bells?” Dom asked with a despairing shake of the head after Matt had confessed that he might just be in the tiniest smidgen of trouble with Eleanor. They were midway through their trans-Tasman flight and Matt was into approximately his fifth hour of worrying about _why_ he was so worried that he might have pissed off Rigby so much that she simply wouldn't be waiting at the other end. It's not like it would be the end of the world if she wasn't, just... mildly vexing. He wouldn't miss her; regret that they'd not gotten those extra couple of days... _right_?

 

“Quite thick, clearly. But, honestly, how was I supposed to know?!” Matt whined.

 

“Well, _I_ did,” Dom told him complacently.

 

“What?! How did you know when I didn't?!”

 

“Because I am the band member with the brains. How you tricked everyone into thinking _you_ were the smart one, I don't know.”

 

“Thank you, Stephen Hawking,” Matt spat witheringly. “Stop acting superior and explain, Howard.”

 

“I don't act, I _am_ ,” Dom said snootily before giving way to laughter. “Don't look at me like that! I'm telling. I didn't know Rigby wasn't Australian either until I had a conversation with Ed from the Checks and he happened to use the expression 'sweet as', which I'd heard her use a couple of times. So I asked him where 'sweet as' came from, and he told me it was 'just a random Kiwi saying that everyone under the age of 30 in New Zealand uses'. And since I'd never heard an _Australian_ use it, I gathered that Eleanor was, in fact, not one of them.”

 

“That's actually quite impressive deductive reasoning,” Matt grudgingly conceded. “But how could you be sure?”

 

“I took a chance and _asked her_ where she was from... and she told me,” Dom confided with a patronising grin.

 

“Well, _I_ could've done that,” Matt defended hotly.

 

“If you'd thought of it?”

 

“Exactly!”

 

His loud exclamation attracted the attention of Chris, who poked his head over the back of his seat. “What's going on here, then?”

 

“Oh, Matt's got himself in the shit with Eleanor by not knowing what country she's from,” Dom gleefully filled him in.

 

“What? New Zealand?”

 

“Did everyone know but me?” Matt snapped.

 

“Apparently so,” Tom offered, joining in.

 

“You too?!” Matt buried his head in his hands. “This just makes me look even worse. I _do_ deserve to be greeted with a pointy stick,” he groaned.

 

“You do,” Dom agreed, voice dripping with relish at Matt's misfortune. “Eleanor's a feisty one. Can't wait to find out what she does to you.”

 

Matt's head popped up and he clutched at Dom's arm. “So you don't think she's going to ditch me, then?” He said hopefully.

 

“Don't be a dick, Matt,” Dom advised, rolling his eyes. “Of course she's not going to ditch you. I've yet to fathom why, but she seems to quite like you. Besides, there's no way she'd pass up the chance to watch you squirm. I get the impression Rigby's rather perverse.”

 

Cheering up slightly at this, Matt couldn't stop the half-smile that crept across his face. “Well, she _may_ have caused me air supply issues at one point, and she _did_ hit me earlier - _before_ I made my nationality blunder,” he mumbled to no one in particular.

 

Looking up to three surprised expressions, Matt fidgeted with his t-shirt and flushed guiltily. “Probably shouldn't've said that. You heard _nothing_.”

 

Dom's smirk took up half his face. “Eleanor hit you?!”

 

“Shut _up_ , Howard,” Matt retorted. “And if you mention that I mentioned this at all before she leaves on Monday...”

 

_April 2008 (London, UK)_

Matt yelped like a trod upon cat and almost tipped his laptop on to the floor as the unexpected feel of a hand on his shoulder startled him from his reminiscing.

 

The words, “Too easy” floated up from somewhere around knee level behind him and Matt peered over the back of the couch in search of their source and into a pair of large grey eyes.

 

“For Christ's sake, Dom,” he roared. “Do you have _no_ boundaries?! You took about six months off my life just then.”

 

Climbing to his feet nonchalantly, Dom smoothed his hair and smiled affably. “You can't blame me for the fact you're so monstrously unobservant. I swear I didn't sneak in, but when you totally failed to notice me, I couldn't help it. You know I can't let an opportunity to mess with you pass me by.”

 

“I know you have no concept of personal space.” Matt glowered at the unconcerned blonde, putting his laptop down and scrambling upright. “I also know that I'm having the locks changed. Do I let myself into _your_ home unannounced?!”

 

“Yes. All the time.”

 

“That was a _rhetorical_ question,” Matt replied peevishly. “Now. Go. Away.”

 

“Oh, I'm not staying. I was on my way to meet Andy for lunch and thought I'd pop in here first and see my girl, Rigby. Where is she?” Dom enquired.

 

“Still asleep,” Matt growled, eyeing him with deep suspicion. “You know, Dominic, I get the feeling you're a little _too_ keen on my woman. Cross the line and I may have to hurt you.”

 

“ _Please_ ,” Dom said dismissively. “It's been a while, but I could still flatten your skinny arse with one arm tied behind my back... _blindfolded_. So... Eleanor's your 'woman', is she? That's quite a possessive declaration.”

 

“Yep. She's _my_ woman. So why-”

 

“Who's your woman?” A raspy voice interrupted from the other end of the living area. Rigby was up, tousled hair framing a sleepy-eyed face.

 

“Ah...” Matt began.

 

“Dom!” Eleanor exclaimed excitedly, spotting his smirking figure. Her eyes lit up and she bounded down the room, pecking him on the cheek as she threw her arms around his neck. “Looking good, my man.”

 

“Likewise, sweetheart,” Dom replied as he squeezed her in tight hug, grinning triumphantly at Matt over her shoulder, whose face was marred by a huge scowl of displeasure - while Rigby was fully covered by her robe, he was fairly sure she had nothing on underneath. There was no way Dom would miss something like _that_.

 

Eleanor pulled back, grabbing Dom by the upper arms and running her gaze up and down his body. “You are looking fine, drummer boy, but you're too skinny” she lectured sternly. “You'd think you'd _gain_ weight when not on tour, what with all the lazing about, but you seem to have lost it instead. You need cake. I'll make you one.”

 

“You're going to make me a cake?!” Dom asked delightedly as she released him and darted over to Matt, greeting him with a kiss on the lips and a warm smile. He was still a tad miffed at the enthusiasm of the welcome she'd given Dom, but found himself helpless in the presence of the cheeky dimple that showed in her left cheek when she was happy, and pulled her into a quick embrace.

 

“I'm a deadly cake maker,” Eleanor boasted, turning back to face Dom. “But you'll have to wait, as I don't have the brain capacity to remember any recipes at the moment, and I doubt the Pasta King here has any baking ingredients.”

 

“There's _no_ way he's getting a cake before I do,” Matt announced, outraged.

 

“Of course not, Bellamy,” she soothed, winking at Dom. “I promise to make your banana cake first.”

 

Chuckling, Dom glanced at his watch. “I've got to go now, but I can assure you I'll be back within 48 hours. You'll be bored of him,” he pointed a finger at Matt, who gave him two in return in a less than polite manner, “by then anyway and in need of some diversion, which I can provide.”

 

“I _have_ always found you excessively diverting,” Eleanor joked.

 

Dom gave her a friendly kiss goodbye. “It's good to have you back, my dear. He's not the only one who missed you.” He waved at Matt in farewell and disappeared out the door before she could respond.

 

“You're blushing,” Matt accused when he was gone, stepping in front of her, “Dom makes you blush. Should I be worried?”

 

“Well...” Eleanor twisted an imaginary goatee with her fingers and hummed thoughtfully. “He is charm personified, and _so_ dashing...” Pausing again, she admired Matt's pout and then went for the kill. “All kinds of handsome...”

 

Matt knew she was winding him up on purpose, and he loved their little mind games, but he couldn't _not_ rise to that. “If Dom's _so_ wonderful, why don't you just-”

 

“Were you telling Dom I was your woman when I came in?” She challenged before he could start ranting, and he was so taken aback he'd nodded before he had a chance to think about it.

 

“I see...” Positively radiating mischief now, Eleanor crooked a beckoning finger at a bamboozled Matt and abruptly left the room.

 

 _You're certainly earning the title 'Barmy Bellamy' now_ , he scolded himself. _In thrall to a half-wild fangirl whose life's mission seems to be giving you shit. Meh,_ Matt gave a mental shrug and followed the inexplicable object of his affection. _Resistance is futile._

 

A short distance down the hallway, Eleanor slowed when she sensed Matt behind her and started to croon tunelessly. “ _It's business, it's business time,”_ she untied her robe, “ _I know what you're trying to say, you're trying to say it's time for business_ ,” lowered it off her shoulders, “ _it's business time, oooh,_ ” let it slide down her form until it was nothing but a brightly coloured puddle left in her wake, “ _it's business, it's business time_...”

 

 _Almost_ naked as she reached the bedroom door, Matt, grinning lewdly, hurried after her, but she stopped, glancing over her shoulder. “ _When I'm down to my socks_ ,” Eleanor indicated the multi-striped pair covering her legs from below the knee, “ _it's time for business_ ,” she cocked an eyebrow, “ _that's why they're called **business** socks, oooh..._ ”

 

Sliding his arms around her bare waist and shunting her forward, Matt jumped in, “ _It's business, it's business time_ ,” and, howling with laughter, they tumbled through the door and on to the bed.

 

***

 

“ _Mmmm, it's business, it's business time_...”

 

“ _Business hours are **over** , baby_...”

 

“ _It's business, it's business time!_ ”

 

Panting and giggling in a messy heap of entwined limbs and crushed bedding, Eleanor flailed about until she could see Matt's face and smiled breathlessly up at him. “Still wondering if you should be worried?”

 

“Ha. What was the name of that bloke who was here before?” Matt scratched his head and looked convincingly perplexed. “Come to think ot if, I'm not sure I remember _my_ name after that. Say, random naked woman in my bed, do _you_ know what I'm called?”

 

“I'm _not_ naked. I still have my socks on. But I'm pretty sure your name's Thom,” Eleanor told him. “Then again, I thought Thom had a dodgy eye...?”

 

“You're not as funny as you think you are, you know,” Matt teased, yanking on her hair.

 

“Nah, I have it on good authority that I'm actually funnier.”

 

“Good authority?”

 

“Yeah, one of my other personalities, the trustworthy one, told me.”

 

“Multiple personalities? Everything makes so much more sense now!”

 

“Pftt! 'Tis very lucky you don't only make love for two minutes, Bellamy,” Eleanor huffed, poking him in the belly, “'cause I wouldn't be sticking around if _your_ personality was all you had going for you.”

 

“But you only need two minutes with me, baby, 'cos I'm so intense,” Matt shot back, and they both creased up with mirth again.

 

“Man, I wish I'd written that song,” he eventually stuttered, head resting on Eleanor's shoulder.

 

“Oh God, you should cover it at the RAH!” She cackled. “Everyone would die from the epicness.”

 

“I'll suggest it to the others.” Matt raised a heavy arm to inspect his watch. “It's after three. What are we doing?”

 

“Sleepy again,” Eleanor sighed, stroking his neck softly. “Nap?”

 

“I could nap. But if you're up to it, we could go out for dinner later.”

 

“It's a plan.”

 

“Where d'you want to go, though? Somewhere flash where there might be celebrities you can pour scorn on for my amusement?” Matt asked, quite tickled at the prospect.

 

“Sounds like that would require the wearing of clothes I'd need to iron first. That is _so_ not happening today. No, I want to go to Nando's,” she declared.

 

“Nando's? What, that South African chain restaurant with the chicken?!”

 

“Fuck yes. I love it. Don't have it at home, so whenever I get anywhere near one, I'm straight there with an elastic waistband.”

 

“But it's cheap,” Matt objected.

 

“And this is a _bad_ thing?”

 

“You have the contents of my, not inconsiderable, wallet at your disposal, and you want to go somewhere, even if we really went to town and ordered a lot of fruity cocktails, we'd only end up spending about fifty quid?” Matt stared at her incredulously.

 

“Are you a bit of a snob on the sly, Matthew?” Eleanor mocked. “Doesn't matter how much it _doesn't_ cost. It's yummy. I'm there. Just be grateful I didn't fancy the local greasy spoon.”

 

“Oh, I am,” he assured her, lip curling in distaste.

 

“No, we'll save that until later,” Eleanor said dozily, groping about for the duvet. “Been dreaming about a proper full English breakfast since I booked my ticket. Be tastier if I let the anticipation build a little longer.” Making herself comfortable, she shut her eyes and reigned in her smirk at Matt's grimace of horror.

 

“You're not-”

 

Eleanor lifted a hand to forestall his protests. “Can't talk, Bellamy. Sleeping.”

 

“Alright, but that didn't count as my servicing,” Matt harumphed, snuggling into her side.

 

“Of course it didn't,” she murmured, already drifting off. “You'd know if you'd been serviced.”

 

“I would?”

 

The only reply was her peaceful, even breathing.


	4. Part Three

_November 2007 (Christchurch, New Zealand)_

**_Butterflies are all having fun_ **

**_You know what I mean..._ **

****

Eleanor December Foxton - 26 years old, daughter of Lawrence and Bethany Foxton, Beatlemaniacs, sister and flatmate of Penny Lane Foxton (for an explanation of this, please refer to the aforementioned parents), born in Nelson and now resident in Wellington, NZ - was fully aware that she had been living her own rock 'n' roll sex fantasy for the past 11 days, but she also fully aware that tomorrow heralded the return of 'real' life - that most loathed of human conditions. Though her 'real' life wasn't particularly objectionable, at times even rather enjoyable, it definitely had nothing on _this_ , and it certainly didn't contain the actual physical presence of Matt Bellamy, just every other form she could get him in.

 

'This' found her sitting in Muse's dressing room at the Westpac Arena in Christchurch a couple of hours before Muse took the stage for the last show of the tour, and she hadn't even had to whack a security guard over the head with her shoe and sneak in to get there! Matt was... somewhere, doing something. Possibly an interview, but, then again, possibly accosting an unsuspecting member of the local crew with his theories on human/alien cross-species pollination. When she'd agreed to stay with him for the remainder of the tour, she'd failed to realise that she'd be forced to listen to him waffle on about absurd crap whenever the mood took him; which was quite often. His nerdish leanings and boyish enthusiasm were utterly charming, but she had a tendency to tune out his actual words and just soak up the sound of his voice, which was ridiculously sexy. Eleanor was grateful he got so caught up when spouting off that he didn't require much response beyond vague encouraging murmurs and the occasional fervent nod of agreement, otherwise she may have got into a bit of trouble by now.

 

Speaking of trouble: how much had Eleanor adored pretending Matt was in it up to his lickable neck over getting her nationality wrong?! She _had_ been upset over him not knowing she was a New Zealander when Dom, Chris, Tom, Paul English, Dom Anderson, Oli Metcalfe, Des Broadberry... basically everyone _but_ Matt, all knew. But not nearly as upset as she'd led him to believe, as she'd immediately realised she was partially to blame for never bringing the subject up. Still, she'd thought it would do him no harm to stew for a while.

 

When he'd come through Arrivals at Auckland and seen her waiting - pointy stick-free - he'd looked so _relieved_ that she'd nearly caved and abandoned her plans to toy with him until at least the next morning. However, he must have seen something in her face that led him to believe he was out of hot water, because his posture had changed, turning his dejected amble into a cocky strut, and a smug smile had taken over his face. His arrogance had made her see red, and her resolve had hardened, so she'd deliberately given everyone but him a lavish greeting and then sat beside Dom in the car on the way to the hotel. When they'd gained the solitude of the room and there were no witnesses, Matt had turned to her with the biggest, bluest, supplication-filled eyes and sucked up to her like she'd never been sucked up to before. It was _astounding_. And he'd been so contrite, so solicitous, so _compelling_ , that he'd hypnotised her into telling him her life story, and actually seemed genuinely interested in hearing it. Eleanor had tried to maintain her cool demeanour, but it had been futile, and she hadn't made it to midnight before he'd coaxed her out of her clothes and on to his cock. Her will power crumbled to nothing when he was around.

 

But he wasn't going to be around much longer, and the thought was making her heart race erratically and her skin itch with abhorrence. God, he was magnificent; everything she'd always believed him to be and more. She shouldn't have stayed, because now she knew and could never forget, and would have to go the rest of her life never experiencing it again. Sometimes Eleanor got the feeling she might mean more to him than the casual affair they were both maintaining this was, but was too unsure of herself to really believe that could be the case. It wasn't that she honestly thought she wasn't good enough for him - if anything, she'd always had a bit of a superiority complex, not the inferiority one that most women usually suffered from - but she'd not had the chance to overcome her _awe_. She'd worshipped him from afar for years, and less than two weeks wasn't enough time to just let that go. Could the man who wrote 'Eternally Missed' want _her_ as much as she'd always wanted him? Inconceivable!

 

Eleanor glanced behind her as her iPod earphones were removed.

 

“What's going on here, then?”

 

“Mr. Howard, you are one nosey fucker.”

 

“Yeah, but I'm cute, so I get away with it,” Dom replied with a dazzling display of straight white teeth, kneeling on the floor behind the couch she was seated on.

 

“Well, _someone_ certainly thought so last night. Who was that Maori chick I saw you sidling out of the bar with?” Eleanor dropped her copy of _Q_ and shuffled around so she could see him better.

 

“Now who's nosey?” He tutted. “So, you saw my new friend, then. Her name was Moana. We had a scintillating evening discussing New Zealand politics and ways to encourage a more environmentally-friendly approach to international travel.”

 

“Awww, no. I've always thought you were a filthy slut, Dominic. Don't disappoint me now.”

 

“Oh, alright, then,” Dom chortled. “We did it three times last night and once before she left this morning and, as she had no idea who I was, I told her I was an optometrist from Oxfordshire in the country for a conference on contact lenses.”

 

“Did you give her an eye examination?”

 

“I gave her _several_ thorough examinations... but none of them were of her eyes.”

 

She laughed until she started tearing up. “I should be offended in the name of female solidarity,” Eleanor finally gasped, punching him lightly on the shoulder. “But I can't get mad at you, especially as I have a fair idea that this Moana is probably basking in a post-coital glow even now.”

 

Dom made quite a fair attempt at appearing bashful, but quickly reverted to his more common 'I'm up for it and it could be your lucky day' expression. “You are 100% correct, Miss Foxton. I have _skills_ , if you know what I mean. And you could _really_ know what I mean, if only you'd let me near you naked.”

 

“Hmmm... why should I take your word for it? Do you have references?”

 

“Well, no. I'm not much of a one for exchanging contact details.”

 

“Then no dice, I'm afraid,” she shrugged. “But you can ask Matt what I look like naked. He's so loose-lipped, he'd probably tell you.”

 

“Not sure it's worth the risk. He's useless in a fight, but Bells has a nasty bitch slap when he's riled.” Dom leant over the back of the couch and picked up her iPod. “I love other people's playlists. They're like windows into their secret selves. What were you listening to just now, then?”

 

“Bit of Queen.”

 

His eyes lit up as he saw what song. “ _Fat bottomed girls you make the rockin' world go round!_ ” He sang with unskilled gusto. “Classic.”

 

“Isn't it?” Eleanor smiled nostalgically. “Strangely, my dad used to sing that song to me when I was little. An edited version without the dodgy parts, obviously. He must have known I'd grow up to have a fine, fat arse. After all, he had seen my mother.”

 

“And what a fine, fat arse it is,” Dom said sincerely. He scrolled through the iPod's contents for a few moments. “Some great tunes on here, Rigby. It seems your good taste extends beyond us. But there's got to be 200 or so items under Muse. We don't have that many songs.”

 

“I know you don't, you lazy beasts. What happened to the days when bands used to put out an album a year?!” She lamented. “But I can explain. So, there's all your studio releases - even the sucky early stuff like 'Jimmy Kane' - and multiple live cuts of every song you've ever performed near a recording device, plus acoustic versions and some of your more amusing interviews. No remixes, though, as no one should be allowed to remix Muse, as they _always_ fuck it up. Isn't Muse Live a magical place?”

 

“The website? I've moseyed around on there a couple of times. They do seem to have everything. Bootlegs of shows I don't even remember _doing_.” He stared at her contemplatively. “You really love us, don't you?”

 

Instead of answering, she asked, “Did you ever read the _Kerrang!_ review of Wembley, Dom?”

 

“Don't think so, no,” he responded, puzzled.

 

“Well, it had a quote that's always stuck with me: 'What Muse do is beautiful and unique. It's also startling and sexual, and so hypnotically commanding it's worth getting fanatical about.'” Eleanor paused to let this sink in. “About sums it up for me, really,” she finished brightly.

 

“Um... wow.” Dom blinked and shook his head as if to clear it. “Thanks, Rigby.”

 

She leaned forward until her mouth was close to his ear and whispered, “I'll not deny it helps that you're all so funny and gorgeous, though.”

 

“Shameless flatterer,” Dom admonished with an appreciative chuckle. He handed her iPod back, patted her hair fondly and stood up.

 

The eyeful of blue lycra-clad crotch Eleanor received when he was at full-height made her take notice of what he was wearing. “Hot damn!” She exclaimed, jumping up and running around the couch so she could look at him properly. “SpiderDom! SpiderDom? We get SpiderDom?! Oh, _sweet as_. New Zealand is super privileged to be graced with such an honour. And look at you, you slinky wee minx! I could feckin' well _eat_ you!”

 

Dom did a showy twirl and then struck a heroic pose for her benefit. “It was Matt's idea, actually. He knows I don't like wearing it, but convinced me that I should make an exception as this was the last proper gig of the year.”

 

“Phwoarrr!” Eleanor couldn't stop staring. “Bless Bellamy. I'm _this_ close to nibbling on your thigh, SpiderDom.”

 

“Please do.” He stuck out a leg. “Here, I've always preferred my right.”

 

Pretending to make a lunge for him, Eleanor dove to the left at the last second and moved to examine him from the rear. “Say, SpiderDom, I've long been curious. Do you wear, um, _anything_ under that? It doesn't leave much to the imagination, and I'm not seeing any tell-tale lines here.”

 

“Nothing but pure Howard under here.” He half-turned to shoot a lascivious wink back at her. “Am I making you horny, baby?”

 

“You'd have to be man-hating lezzer not to get turned on by _this_ ,” she assured with a saucy grin. “D'you have the mask, then?”

 

“Unfortunately not. Left it at home. Sorry.”

 

“Ah, not to worry. Man, this is a special moment in my life. Alone in a room with SpiderDom. I need pictures. Pictures!”

 

She was distractedly casting around for where she'd left her bag when the door opened and Matt came in. Eyes flitting between Dom's alter ego and Eleanor's slightly glazed expression, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Shit, I should've thought this one through.” His tone was resigned. “I hope you feel guilty for lusting after my best mate, woman.”

 

***

 

The reception had been raucous when SpiderDom slinked onstage, and Eleanor had happily joined in on the wolf whistling and loud chorus of, “SpiderDom, SpiderDom! Does whatever a SpiderDom can!”, the drummer _oozing_ smugness as a result as he settled behind his kit. 'Didn't like wearing it', indeed! But watching from the side of the stage was odd in the extreme, and she wasn't sure she liked it. The sound definitely wasn't as clear, plus she'd never seen the audience at a Muse concert from the other side before. It was fucking terrifying! How did the boys do this night after night? She didn't know, but she did know she'd rather be down there, in amongst the chaos; because this show was absolutely _electric_ , the best of the tour.

 

The crowd were going spare in a way New Zealand crowds didn't normally do, Kiwis being a restrained bunch in general; even more vocal than in Auckland. The moshpit looked _brutal_ , and seemed to take up the entirety of the arena floor. Christ, she wanted in on the action! Clinging to the barrier for dear life and elbowing people in the ribs when they tried to pinch her spot! And Matt. She wanted to be able to look into Matt's face. The side profile wasn't enough, though he'd made a point to turn her way a few times, giving her an ecstatic smile and a significant thrust of the groin against his guitar that had her shaking with laughter. But she could only see his back when he was at the piano, and while she wasn't averse to the way his tight t-shirt clung sweatily to his skin as he hunched over the instrument, not being able to witness his hands as he played was just plain cruel.

 

But Eleanor was getting a real kick out of observing all the women on the barrier licking their lips with a glint in their eye over him. There were two in particular, standing right in front of him, that were wearing the face she just _knew_ she wore when she was in their position. It was quite enlightening, if not a tad sobering. She had no idea how she'd managed to score him looking like _that_. Any rational man would've fled swiftly in the other direction. Good luck for her Matt had never been accused of rationality.

 

Caught up in jumping up and down and headbanging along to the riffed-up, thrashed-out conclusion of 'Stockholm Syndrome' - much to the amusement of the crew - Eleanor didn't see that they were about to leave the stage before the encore until the last second. Hurrying to move further into the wings so she didn't get in anyone's way, she was surprised when her wrist was grasped by calloused fingers and she was abruptly pulled back around.

 

“I hope you appreciated me kicking that amp over, wench. I did it for you. Where are you going, anyway? This is why I wanted you here.”

 

Matt's smile was so beautiful she metaphorically melted into a pile of girly goo on the grubby floor. _Don't go_ , she silently implored. _You cannot make me feel like this and then just leave. I'm ruined. Ruined for life. I will **never** get over this. You complete and utter bastard!_

 

Handing off his Manson to a waiting Paul Spencer, Matt bundled her into a clammy hug. “Here, come and make out with me in a shadowy corner for five minutes, Rigby. We probably won't get back to the hotel for fucking ages, and I don't want to miss out on any more sexy action than necessary.”

 

_April 2008 (London, UK)_

_I can't believe I'm actually here_ , Eleanor mused, leaning in the doorway to the living area of Matt's flat, silently watching as he pootled about on the piano. _Hell, that coma idea I had back in November is becoming more and more plausible as time goes on. I apologise, Subconscious. I obviously underestimated your imaginative powers. Hmmm... I wonder what happened to me to get me in the coma in the first place? More pertinently, I wonder if Penny's been maintaining my eyebrows while I'm not awake to do it myself? The girl knows how paranoid I am about them getting bushy._ She rolled her eyes at herself as the nuttiness of this train of thought occurred to her. _You do think a load of crap, Eleanor._

 

An extended pause in the music stirred her into action, and she strode across the room and perched herself on the corner of Matt's piano stool.

 

“I'm going to Primark. I may be some time,” Eleanor announced theatrically.

 

Shutting the lid over the piano's keys, Matt manoeuvered himself until he was straddling the stool and pulled her into the fork of his legs with his arms around her waist. “Primark? You're game. Want me to come with?”

 

“Don't be stupid, Matthew. They sell coloured skinny jeans. You're bound to be recognised.”

 

“Muser logic, is it?”

 

“Exactly. And I know you hate shopping. Besides, didn't you say something about a meeting?”

 

“Oh, yeah. Boring business to discuss with Tony,” Matt remembered, running his fingertips along the waistband of her jeans.

 

“Anthony Addis, your bald dude manager?” Eleanor enquired, unable to control her twitching as he hit her ticklish spots.

 

“How do...” He trailed off. “Of course, you know everything. I forget sometimes.”

 

“Oh, I do like knowing a lot more about you than you do about me. Gives me the illusion of power.”

 

“I'm not sure it _is_ an illusion,” Matt said thoughtfully, probing Eleanor's bellybutton until she jerked convulsively and started giggling.

 

“Stop it!” She shrieked when he didn't let up, seizing his hand and shoving it under her leg so she was sitting on it. “Fiend.”

 

“Ah, compliments,” he taunted with an evil smile, slipping his other hand under her top. “Should be done by about one. Meet me there for lunch?”

 

“Where's there?” Eleanor relaxed as he began to rub gentle circles over the small of her back.

 

“The Savoy.”

 

She gave him a _look_.

 

“What?! Tony likes the little cucumber sandwiches they have! I didn't choose it.”

 

“You. Are. _Posh_ ,” she trilled, pleased with how miffed Matt appeared at the accusation. “I'll have to make sure I buy a nice feminine frock, then. They'd never let me in dressed like this.”

 

“I don't know. What about all those American tourists in shiny white trainers and baseball caps who go there for the traditional British cream tea? They let _them_ in, and you're _slightly_ better dressed.”

 

“Yeah, well, you're not,” Eleanor retorted, pursing her lips disdainfully as she plucked at his shirt.

 

“She can dish it out, but she can't take it,” he muttered under his breath.

 

“Watch it, Bellamy,” she warned. “Or I won't buy you a present.”

 

“But I _love_ pwesents!” Matt pouted. “Well, I love _quality_ presents. There's nothing more disappointing than a shit gift. Hmmm... I should exploit your fangirl insight. Why do girls give me teddy bears? Do I seem like the sort of man who's looking for more cuddly toys in his life?”

 

“No. I find the urge to shower you with fluffy bunnies utterly inexplicable. To me you've always seemed like the kind of man who's looking for more handcuffs and gags in his life, quite frankly.”

 

“Is that what my present's going to be, then?!” Chuckling wickedly, Matt wriggled his now numb hand until Eleanor lifted her leg and let him have it back. “You've squished it, by the way. I'll never play again.”

 

Eleanor gave the reddened appendage a perfunctory once over. “Serves you right for sticking it where it doesn't belong, Molester Matt.”

 

“If my hand doesn't belong in the vicinity of your pants, you may as well cut it off now.”

 

“Such a romantic,” she gave a faux dreamy sigh, dimple flashing. Matt was hurt. That _was_ romantic by his standards.

 

“Right.” Eleanor stood up decisively, and Matt's hand fell away as he gazed up at her. “I just need my fix and then I'm all set for a few hours of relatively guilt-free consumerism.” And she bent her head to where his neck became his shoulder and took a thorough sniff. “Ahhh... I love the smell of Bellamy in the morning.”

 

Matt sniggered and took a handful of her chestnut hair before she could pull away, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply. “Fragrance of Foxton is fine _anytime_ ,” he whispered cheesily.

 

“Oh my God, you are _lame._ ” Eleanor grinned against his ear, taking a quick nip at the lobe. “What is _wrong_ with me that I find that so hot?!”

 

***

 

“Just a minute there, Tony,” Matt interrupted, spotting Rigby at the other end of the opulent tearoom and getting to his feet. “We must've run over. I told Eleanor to meet me here at one. Back in a moment.”

 

He dodged around tables to intercept her at the door, where she stood surveying the room. When their eyes finally met, she graced Matt with a slightly grouchy smile.

 

“What's up, Rigby love?” Matt asked, kissing her on the cheek and taking some of the many bags she was holding. “You look grumpy.”

 

“Primark on Oxford Street would test the patience of the most saintly individual,” Eleanor told him as he led  her back towards where Anthony was seated. “But I'm really fuming over how the cow of a receptionist turned her nose up in snobby horror when she saw where I'd been shopping. Seemed like she was about to ask me to get the fuck out! Why d'you always drag me places where bitches give me crap, eh?”

 

Stifling a grin at this tirade - and the startled glances her colourful language was drawing from the establishment's more genteel patrons - Matt turned to her as they reached the table and said gravely, “I apologise on behalf of every person who has ever done you ill, my dear.”

 

Rolling her eyes, Eleanor placed her consumer burden on the floor and then flipped him off discreetly while wearing a sweet smile.

 

Laughing, Matt added the bags he was carrying to the pile and pulled out a chair for her. “Sit down and meet the man who deals with most of the lawyers so I don't have to.” He indicated the affable figure in glasses and a sharp suit on the otherside of the table. “Tony, meet Eleanor Foxton, my girlfriend. Rigby, meet Anthony Addis, our 'bald dude manager'.”

 

Eleanor shot an incredulous sideways look at Matt before shaking Tony's outstretched hand firmly and beginning to remove her coat. _Did he just call me his girlfriend?! That's even more amazing than him claiming I'm his 'woman'! And **that** thought was an affront to feminism... _“It's a pleasure, Mr. Addis,” she smiled as she slung the coat over the back of her chair and sat down, Matt taking the seat beside her.

 

“Please, call me Tony,” he replied. “It's good to finally meet you. I've heard so many stories, you're almost a legend.”

 

“Christ, what have that bunch of swines been saying about me?!” Eleanor fretted rhetorically, wondering if she should be embarrassed. From the way Matt was smirking, most probably. “I'm sorry to interrupt if you two weren't finished,” she continued, deciding ignorance was indeed bliss.

 

“You're fine. We were almost done, and it's nothing that can't wait.” Tony closed the smart black leather folder resting beside his plate. “If it's after one, I should get going anyway.” He stood and gathered his things. “I'll talk to you next week, Matt?”

 

“Sure, mate. Don't forget your last cucumber sandwich, will you?”

 

“Such a helpful lad,” Tony confided to Eleanor, and she giggled as Matt pulled a face. “I'll see you at the Albert Hall, Eleanor. We can exchange tips on how to keep him in line.” He traded friendly nods with her, shook hands with Matt, nabbed his sandwich and left with a parting wave, bald head gleaming.

 

“I like him,” Eleanor informed Matt when he was gone. “Knows how to treat you, and he's really working that bald look.”

 

“I'll take your word for it. But he does a great job.” Matt pulled his chair in closer to hers and toyed with the retro floral-printed fabric of her sleeve. “You _did_ buy a nice feminine frock, then.” His eyes were warm as they swept over her. “You look pretty, Eleanor Rigby.”

 

Coming over all coy suddenly, she blushed fetchingly and stared down at the tabletop. “Thanks,” Eleanor murmured. “It was too cold to take off my jeans, though,” she said in a louder voice. “Probably added to the receptionist's disdain.”

 

“I hope you gave her the finger like you did to that one the night we met,” Matt chuckled. “That was so cool.”

 

“It was?”

 

“Oh, yeah. Your bad attitude is one of your main selling points.” He bestowed Eleanor with his cute, crooked grin and then quirked his head towards the mountainous collection of shopping bags beside her. “And how d'you plan to get all that back to New Zealand? Your suitcase is already overflowing, and isn't the luggage limit in economy 20kg? It's a shame. You'll just have to stay here with me instead. Plenty of spare wardrobes at mine.”

 

“Matt, don't start,” Eleanor requested, fiddling uncomfortably with menu in front of her. “We've had this discussion before. I _can't_ stay, we both know it. And I bet you'd change your tune if I turned around and said, 'Alright, you're on. I'll just never go home and stay here with you _forever._ ' You're not serious and it's not something I like you taking the piss about, though you know it's open season on everything else.”

 

Hearing this disturbed Matt slightly - did she really have such a low opinion of his attachment to her? But the main reason he found her assertion disturbing was because he suspected that if she _did_ say that to him, he'd actually be bloody thrilled. And that wasn't good, was it? To feel that? _Fangirl who lives on the otherside of the world, Bellamy_ , he reminded himself. _Fangirl who lives on the otherside of the world_...

 

***

 

Eleanor had her iPod hooked up to speakers in Matt's bedroom, grooving along to Queens of the Stone Age as she sorted through the - now that she considered it objectively - outrageous amount of clothes she'd bought. After lunch at the Savoy they'd returned to the flat to dump the shopping and headed to the Science Museum, where they'd spent _hours_ , as Matt had lingered far too long at each exhibit. Sure, it was interesting, just not quite as interesting to her as it was to him. To his credit, Matt _had_ eventually registered that he was testing her patience, and bought her a packet of Mr. Kipling's Angel Slice on the way home to make up for it. The little pink and white cakes were a favourite, and always cheered her up, but you couldn't buy them in New Zealand. How he'd remembered something she'd mentioned in passing months ago...

 

“Come on, admit it,” the science geek in question cajoled as he waltzed in from where he'd been arranging a night out on Saturday with Dom and Tom on the phone. He turned down the volume a touch and pointed triumphantly at the colourful heap covering the bed. “You'll never fit it all in, _and_ you'll be overweight. It'll cost you a fortune.”

 

“Oh, I'll fit it in,” Eleanor declared confidently. “It's like Tetris, packing is. I _rule_ at Tetris.”

 

“We'll see,” Matt replied with a skeptical smile, impudently parking his arse on top of her brand new - and already beloved - long, fitted trench coat covered in polka dots. “Where's my present, woman?”

 

“I'll 'present' you with a punch to the stomach if you don't get off my new coat,” she shot back, and when she turned back around after picking up the bag she'd set aside, it was to find Matt now seated cross-legged on the floor, eyes wide with innocence and hands folded in his lap.

 

“Is it handcuffs?” He asked with a beguiling tilt of the head.

 

“Matthew, you already own handcuffs,” Eleanor reminded, sitting down right in front of him so their knees were touching.

 

“Yes, but you said I look like I want _more_ ,” Matt reasoned, staring intently at the bag she was clutching.

 

“It's not handcuffs. Get over it.” She swung the bag temptingly in his face and he snatched it greedily, tipping it upside down so the contents fell between them.

 

“Socks!” He crowed happily, picking the first of the two pairs - in a virulent shade of lime green - up with a small grin. “They're the same colour as Dom's infernal pants!”

 

“I know. That's why I got them. You're terrible for giving people an eyeful of your socks when you're gallivanting about on stage, so I thought it would give everyone a kick if you were colour-coordinated with Dom while you did it.”

 

“Fangirl,” Matt accused gleefully. “I'm going to make Dom wear the pants on the 12th now, so we can match for your benefit.” He examined the second pair with a keen eye. “Hmmm, they remind me of-”

 

“That questionable diamond-patterned jumper you wore at the Meteor Awards?” Eleanor butted in. Matt nodded. “Again, deliberate. If you enjoy dressing like a granddad so much, who am I to stop you?”

 

Cackling, Matt leaned forward and pulled her into a kiss with a possessive hand around her neck. “Thank you, Rigby. I love them. Better than handcuffs.”

 

“Oh, really?” Their faces hovered close, breaths mingling. “How's that?”

 

“Well, not only can I use them to keep my feet toasty, but they'd also be handy for tying you up. Stretchy, solid grip. And, at a pinch, they could even be utilised for the purposes of gagging. _Very_ useful. ”

 

“Inventive.” Eleanor's eyes were ablaze. “Just as long as you've not been wearing them beforehand.”

 

“Promise,” Matt swore, hand to heart. He put his new socks carefully out of the way and then eased up onto his knees, tugging Rigby up with him. The music still playing captured both their attentions as conversation ceased-

 

_… And I just can't recall what started it all_   
_Or how to begin in the end_   
_I ain't here to break it_   
_Just see how far it will bend_   
_Again and again_   
  
_I wanna make it_   
_I wanna make it wit chu_   
_Anytime, anywhere_   
_I wanna make it_   
_I wanna make it wit chu..._

“Talk about a mood setter,” Eleanor purred, hand resting significantly at the first button on Matt's shirt. “The world's most epically sleazy yet rockin' song. I always feel the urge to drop my knickers within ten seconds of hearing it, regardless of the company I'm in.”

 

Steppling his fingers under his hawk-like nose, Matt bore an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Burns as he hissed, “ _Excellent_.” The blue of his eyes was depthless as he looked her over hungrily. “Take that urge and _run with it_ , Rigby.” His brow furrowed momentarily. “But just with me, obviously.”

 

“Why should I save my knicker dropping exclusively for you when, as far as you're concerned, 'any cheap slapper will do'?” Eleanor challenged, fingers busy as she began to unbutton him.

 

“When did I-”

 

“Say that? At the _NME_ Awards, dingus. You really must try and remember that if you say _anything_ near a journalist, I'm going to know about it,” she lectured, slipping her hands under the cloth of his shirt now it was undone and pushing it over his shoulders and off.

 

“But that was just a joke,” Matt whined, perplexed as to why Rigby had started alternately licking and biting up his forearm in a really rather erotic way if she was displeased with him.

 

Lifting her mouth from his skin, Eleanor fluttered her lashes languidly before breaking into a winning smile. “Of course it was. I laughed my arse off. Still, if you _were_ looking for a cheap slapper, they'd be lining up around the block.”

 

“But I'm not.” Matt purposely kept his voice light and casual as he held her cheek in his palm and studied all the different shades of autumn in her eyes. What he was going to say next could mean little to her, or it could mean a lot. “I've not looked for a cheap slapper since before we met, actually.”

 

Eleanor tried not to gape. _Is he telling the truth?! He's not shagged anyone but me in almost five months? But he went two and a half months without seeing me at all! S_ he couldn't think about it. The implications would make her head explode. Instead, she beamed at Matt, and when he moved his little finger to her dimple, the tip fitted into the hollow it made perfectly. “I'm going to _service_ you now, Mr. Bellamy.”

 

“Oh. Yah for _me_ ,” Matt muttered fervently, casting his eyes ceilingward as Rigby did something fascinating to the inside of his elbow that made many different parts of him twitch in anticipation. _It meant a lot, then. Damn right,_ he thought mutinously, _as I was fucking **stoked** when she told me nobody else had access to her knickers but me. And her. Yes. Like she described. Good God, she's so... **yummy**. _

 

“Yah for Matt,” Eleanor agreed breathily, nibbling the tender skin on the inside of his upper arm. He had the most delicious skin, it tasted like sunshine and sin. She'd missed it so much, _him_ so much more than she'd let on. As his free hand started to lift the hem of her dress, she prised it away, folding his arm behind his back. “No, no, no. We're servicing Matt. This is not a mutual servicing.”

 

“Denied.” Matt nuzzled his face against her hair as she bent her head over his shoulder and kissed along the  prominent blade. “What? Not even a grope?”

 

“Only _I_ am alllowed to grope.” Doing just that, Eleanor had at Matt like a dirty old man crushed against a teenage girl in an overcrowded Tube carriage, savaging his throat with warm, moist lips as she did so. Giggling as she dipped her hands under his trousers and boxers, cupping his arse and then circling around his hips, he twisted his fingers together behind his back, determined to remain passive. “I shouldn't be able to do this,” she complained into his collarbone, stroking him fleetingly before extracting her hands. “Pants too baggy... again. But we shall remove them and the problem will be solved. Stand up for me, my man.”

 

“You could at least get naked, too,” Matt groused, grudgingly getting to his feet.

 

Remaining on her knees, Eleanor let her mouth drag down over his chest and stomach as he did so. Indulgently pressing her cheek to the pearly white smoothness of his torso, she began undoing his flies. “I thought I looked pretty. Stop trying to defile my prettiness with your perviness.” Pulling his trousers and boxers down in one go, she leant back to smirk up at him. “Ha ha! You're naked and I'm not!”

 

“I didn't know your traditional servicing involved pointing and laughing at the the servicee like Nelson Muntz from 'The Simpsons',” Matt wondered, kicking away his clothes. He rapped her on the top of the head with his knuckles. “Be nice, Rigby.”

 

“You have two choices,” Eleanor replied, casting an admiring glance over Matt in the altogether with a stirring hard on and eyes narrowed in mock disapproval. Standing up, she grasped him by the hips ( _Oh, he's so pointy and pretty and petulant and no one should ever be allowed to touch him again but me!_ ), rubbing herself against him as she continued into his ear, “Choice one: I can leave you here - unsatisfied - while I go and look the word 'nice' up in the dictionary and then try and learn how to be it myself.” A wet kiss was applied to the angle of his jaw. “This could take _months_ , you understand.” Matt murmured wordlessly as the cotton of her dress chaffed enticingly at his erection, smiling to himself. “Choice two: I can stay and suck your brain out through your cock like some sort of of porno zombie. Up to you, Mr. Bellamy.”

 

“'Porno zombie'?!” Chuckling hysterically, he pecked once, twice at her temple.

 

“A fine choice, Sir.” Shuffling backwards, Eleanor's calves encountered the low, padded blanket chest at the end of the bed. Sitting down on it, she made a space between her legs and extended a hand to Matt. “Just the right height,” she informed him impishly.

 

“You're not even going to kneel? You lazy bitch!” Still, he slotted himself into place with alacrity, staring down at her expectantly.

 

Clutching the satiny skin at the rear of his upper thigh with one hand, she wrapped the fingers of the other around him and lent forward. “Nice _cock_ ,” Eleanor breathed before fixing her lips around the tip.

 

The air whooshed out of Matt's lungs on a heavy sigh as Rigby slowly but determinedly slipped him inch by inch into the soaking heat of her mouth.

 

Not bothering with any introductory exploration, Eleanor kept her eyes tightly shut, intently focused on getting Matt as deep as she could and literally sucking him dry. She pulled her hand away from his hard flesh and twined her arm around his waist instead, wriggling forward on her seat to cross her ankles behind him to trap him in place, then tipped her head back with a sultry, muffled whimper. Matt gulped as he felt himself slipping towards the back of her throat. The suction she was creating was reality-cloudingly fierce, the added sproradic caress of her tongue and teasing clamp of her teeth making his toes and fingers curl in ecstasy.

 

“Ugh. I love your fucking mouth, Foxton,” he babbled, hopelessly enamoured. “I love the look of it - the feel of your lovely, rosy lips - the way it encases my cock just right, how it tastes when my tongue's inside it... But most of all I love the way it talks, all the sensational things it says to me. You have. The best. Mouth. Ever.”

 

Eleanor hummed appreciatively, and the vibrations added an extra layer to the experience. Matt's hips bucked, he couldn't stop them, and, to his surprise, Rigby didn't try and stop them either. Instead she pressed her palm to his tailbone and pushed. His previously unoccupied hands flew to her head, settling lightly in her hair, and together they set up a steady ebb and flow, until Matt was gently fucking her mouth, and it was...

 

“Incredible,” Matt panted, fingers flexing convulsively against her scalp. “You're fucking incredible, Rigby love.”

 

Her breaths were escaping in short, sharp exhales through her nose and tickling at the skin of his groin, lips stretched in the most obscene way around his glistening length, and he was close, everything tingling and stiffening exquisitely, when her eyelids flew open and she looked up. Eleanor's irises glittered with naughtiness, clearly ever so pleased with herself, and then she winked, actually _winked_ , at him! Matt released a snigger-laced groan, throwing his head back as his brain dissolved into liquid pleasure and rushed to depart his body through his cock.

 

He tried to pull out, but Rigby wasn't having it, digging her nails into his arse and continuing to suck as he jerked uncontrollably and began to empty himself deep in her mouth. She swallowed repeatedly, clenching the muscles of her throat around his tip, extracting a prolonged, mind-numbing, _vocal_ orgasm out of him.

 

 _Jesus, Mary and Joseph_ , Eleanor thought giddily, mastering her gag reflex. _He makes the most insanely horny noises. I could come in sympathy just listening to him!_

 

Panting and muttering deliriously as his hips finally stilled, Matt grinned disbelievingly as she let his softening shaft glide from between her lips. “What?” Eleanor questioned disingenuously, swiping the back of one hand over her mouth and petting calmingly at his moisture-sheened back with the other.

 

“'What?' she asks,” Matt wheezed after gathering his scattered wits, sagging down beside her, exhausted and somehow _stupider_ than he'd been when he'd entered the room. “You let me come in your mouth. You _swallowed_. You've never done that before.”

 

“Oh. That. Well, it's a matter of trust, isn't it?”

 

“You trusted me enough to let me take you back to my hotel and shag you from behind in front of a mirror within an hour or so of meeting me, but only _now_ find yourself able to...”

 

“Savour your super semen?” Eleanor concluded bluntly, smile infectious as she revelled in shocking him.

 

There was no adequate reply to that, so Matt sat in dumbfounded, mirth-filled silence as Rigby jumped up and casually smoothed out her dress. The remarkable woman leaned down to him, running an affectionate hand over his damp hair and placing a kiss on his forehead. “I _do_ trust you, Bellamy, because you've earned it. Don't taste _too_ bad, either. But you're not particularly filling, so I'm going to go make a snack. Fancy one?”

 

Eleanor skipped out the door after Matt nodded in mute affirmation, and, not quite as distracted, he noticed the music had long since moved on to a new song. It was QOTSA's cover of 'Never Say Never'-

 

_… I might like you better_

_If we slept together..._

“Ha!” Matt grumbled, fishing around on the floor for his boxers. “If I liked her any better I'd be in...”

 

_Love, Matthew. It's a lot like love..._


	5. Part Four

_December 2007 (Los Angeles, USA)_

**_Dragonflies out in the sun_ **

**_You know what I mean, don't you know..._ **

“Dom, I think I'm in trouble.”

The blonde man glanced up from where he was cleaning his silver Chucks with a baby wipe on the dressing room couch to find Matt pacing a furrow into the carpet, nervously wringing his hands. “And why's that, Bells?”

“It's Eleanor, I-”

“Christ, you haven't knocked her up, have you?!” Dom demanded as he tossed his trademark kicks aside, springing to his feet and grabbing Matt by the arm to halt his movement. “Because if you have, I'm going to have to hold you down while Chris beats the crap out of you.”

“What?!” Matt was gobsmacked. “No, of course not! Why would you even _think_ something like that?! How many women have I shagged? A lot, right? And have we once received even a _hint_ that there might be a Baby Bellamy out there? No! I'm fucking offended, mate.”

Slightly shame-faced, Dom held both hands out in apology. “Okay, that was out of line. I'm sorry. But you looked so worried. I just jumped to the worst possible conclusion. And you know how much we all liked Rigby. Obviously I'm a bit overprotective.”

“Ah, it's alright,” Matt shrugged awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “It's nice that you care enough to get all macho on her behalf. But that brings us to the problem. Caring. I think I might just care about Eleanor a little _too_ much, 'cause I sorta, maybe, kinda reallymissherandwanttoseeheragainlikerightnow.”

Being one of the only people on Earth capable of understanding Matt no matter what speed he was talking at, Dom had no trouble deciphering this. “I don't see the problem, Bells,” he half-laughed. “ _I_ miss her, and I didn't even get to see her naked.”

“I should hope not,” Matt replied with a haughty sniff. “But it _is_ a problem, Dommers. It's head-case mental to want to pursue... whatever it was that we had. A fangirl who lives on the other side of the world? Oh, yeah, _that's_ a really first class idea!”

“Since when has something being a phenomenally barmy notion been an obstacle to you?” Flopping back on to the couch, Dom casually resumed his shoe maintenance. “Usually makes you more determined to do it.”

“Good point, well made,” Matt conceded, rubbing his eyes wearily. He lent back against the dressing table behind him. “Ugh. I don't bloody know what I'm doing, as per feckin' usual with my personal life.”

“Yeah, older and wiser, my arse,” Dom bitched sympathetically, waving one Converse for emphasis. “I'm _thirty_ , for crying out loud, and I'll be damned if I've made any progress on this 'emotional maturity' shit.” Shaking his head resignedly, he continued, “But we're not talking about me. Tell me how you left things with Eleanor. I didn't see her again after you left that bar in Christchurch at, like, 5am; though her farewells were hilarious and, at the same time, incredibly sweet. What happened when _you_ said goodbye?”

“Oh.” Smirking, Matt wriggled up to sit on the table at his back. “Rigby's flight was early - I think she had to go back to work that afternoon - so it was only a few hours before she had to be at the airport anyway. I offered to go with her and she told me to sod off. The next ninety minutes or so has been removed by the censors, sorry, but when I suddenly came over all faint and breathless, she took advantage of my weakness to take several photos of me in bed-”

“She did?!” Dom interrupted, cackling.

“I know, right?” Matt groaned, automatically swinging his legs back and forth as his feet didn't touch the floor. “I mean, the witch _promised_ not to tell anyone even remotely Muse-related about us, and I believed her, but that's a bit edgy. Ammunition...”

“Don't be paranoid, Bells.” Putting his now sparkly clean shoes down, Dom slouched comfortably into his seat. “Very trustworthy, our Eleanor. Anyway, and then what?”

“It was... quiet,” he replied softly. “We both got very quiet. I don't know what was going on in Rigby's head, but _I_ was afraid to open my mouth in case I asked her to come to Thailand. I was very tempted, even though I knew what her answer would be. So she packed, and I watched - already in mourning for the loss of her knickers covered in bananas and how much I enjoyed taking them off her - until it was time for her to go...”

“And she just left?”

“No. Let me finish, Howard. At which point she came and sat next to me on the bed, wearing that deadly smile of hers with the dimple and the naughtiness, and said - I remember it exactly - 'Please don't say anything. It'll make it easier. So, it's been fucking epic, Bellamy. I have _never_ had a better time. You are something else. Don't ever change. Thank you. And I mean that on so many different levels, you really have no idea. The next time you're in NZ, you've got a guaranteed shag. It's the least I can do. But if you let me down with the next album, the consequences will be _severe_. Give me a really memorable snog to take with me, then.' So I did.” Matt grinned, the little moan that had caught in the back of her throat that last time replaying in his head. “ _Then_ she left. But not before pulling the Devil horns and yelling, 'Muse rock!' at me. So I obviously had no choice but to yell, 'Rigby rocks more!' as the door was closing, and she stuck her head back in and goes, 'I know. I'm _awesome_. You totally scored.'”

Dom's gleeful chuckling at his expense was infectious, and Matt broke down into giggles, sliding off his perch and onto the floor. “Man, what was she like?!” He hiccupped.

“Just what she said,” Dom told him, “ _awesome_.” There was a thoughtful pause that made Matt look up enquiringly. “Here, Bells, I've had an idea. We're already halfway to New Zealand. Why don't you just... go there tomorrow instead of back to England? Eleanor pretty much _invited_ you to.”

“I can't do that!” Matt exclaimed without thinking.

 

“I don't see why not,” his friend argued calmly. “There's nothing you have to go back home for that can't wait. You were probably just going to go to bed for a month anyway, like you do at the end of every tour. Wouldn't it be more fun to go to bed with Rigby instead?” Dom finished with a suggestive leer.

 

_Could it really be that easy?_ Matt asked himself, eyes going distant. _Just go and see her... just like that?_ It sounded so simple. And it didn't have to mean anything if he didn't want it to. And he didn't, did he? No, of course not. It was just fun. Foxton equalled fun. Not to mention lots of outstanding orgasms. Plus he'd always wanted to spend more time in New Zealand...

“I can see your brain ticking over from here, Bells,” Dom accused, rousing Matt from his pondering. “You're going to do it, aren't you?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I bet you'd already subconsciously decided on it, and your twisted mind bought Eleanor up to me so _I_ could suggest it and _you_ could make out like it wasn't your idea in the first place!”

“No! I swear!” Matt defended sincerely. He hadn't, had he...? “Never mind that. D'you think The Kirk and Anderson could get me on a flight to Wellington tomorrow, then?”

“If you're prepared to throw enough money at it, _anything_ can be arranged. But I don't think you can fly there direct from here. You'd have to go to Auckland first.” Dom glanced around as if he'd just noticed there was something missing. “Where is that work-shy tosser Kirkleton, anyway?”

“Him and Chris have hijacked a car and pissed off to that Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles place,” Matt spat, as if even the _name_ left a bad taste in his mouth. “They wanted one last sample of fine American cuisine apparently, as we'll not be back here for so long.”

“Man, that place is _wrong_.... _and_ they'll be covered in imitation maple syrup when they get back.”

“I swear, if Chris chases after me with his gross, greasy, sticky, waffley-chicken hands again, I'm going to sabotage his bass,” Matt declared, flexing his fingers ominously.

“Which one?”

“All of them.” He was silent for a few seconds, trying to think of _one_ really excellent reason for him _not_ to go to NZ. Matt couldn't come up with anything, but something else occurred to him. “For fuck's sake, I don't have Rigby's address!”

“Oh, not to worry,” Dom responded sunnily. “I've got it.”

“Not that I'm not thrilled to hear that, Dominic,” Matt said with strained politeness, “but you better have an entirely innocent and convincing reason for it.”

“Relax. God, you can be such a jealous bitch sometimes.” Blithely ignoring Matt as he stuck his tongue out at him, Dom went on, “Anyway, don't you remember that I asked Eleanor to look at those trousers for me? Well, she fitted them and then took them back home to her sewing machine, obviously not having one with her. I gave her the details of the hotel in Thailand and she sent the finished pants there. She'd written her address on the package, and I kept it. I must send her something to say thanks. They look fucking _mint_.”

Stung, Matt demanded, “You got a package from Foxton, and you didn't tell me?!”

“Oops. Forgot,” Dom returned with a sheepish smile. “In my defence, it was the same day Kirky managed to trip over that sun lounger and fall in the pool when he was ogling that bird. It kind of slipped my mind in all the hilarity.”

“Huh. Well, was there anything else in the package besides your blasted girl pants? A note or something?”

“No note. Just a three-pack of Spiderman underwear for boys aged 8 to 10.” He paused. “She'd sewn name tags in them: _Property of Dominic James Howard_.”

“What. The. Fuck?!” Matt gasped, wracked with soundless laughter. “How could _that_... slip your mind?!”

“I don't know!” Dom chortled, shaking his head. “But if _you_ don't go to NZ, I will! Besides, doesn't Rigby have an older sister?”

Matt hauled himself up into a chair, still seized with the occasional giggle. “Yeah. Penny. Nicknamed Penfold after the character from 'Danger Mouse'. They share a flat, actually.”

“Wow. Imagine staying in a small flat with two Rigbys.” Dom went misty eyed at the thought. “Are you sure I can't go instead of you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, can I come _with_ you, then?

“Absolutely not, Howard.”

“You're so greedy,” the drummer grouched, pouting.

Grinning smugly, Matt answered, “I am, aren't I?”

“Well, screw you, Bellamy! Since this show's being streamed online by KROQ, you can be pretty sure Eleanor will be watching. I'm going to wear my Spiderman costume. Then she'll be looking at me not you!”

“Whatever, drama queen. But will you do something for me when you're back in London?”

“Oh, so you _are_ going?” Dom reluctantly asked.

“Why not, eh?” Matt waved an airy, unbothered hand. “I promised Mum I'd be there for Christmas, but I haven't got anything better to do right now...”

_December 2007 (Wellington, NZ)_

Due to the baffling time difference and domestic connection required to get there, it was a balmy yet breezy early Wednesday evening when the taxi from the airport deposited Matt outside a second-hand clothing store called Retro Fabulous in an inner city suburb of New Zealand's capital city, Wellington. Rigby lived above the shop in a two-bedroom flat with her sister. At least, he hoped she did.

As Matt manhandled his laptop bag, smaller red suitcase and the flight-case containing one of his Mansons across the sidewalk and around the corner to the door with Eleanor's street number on it he'd spotted as the car pulled up, he glanced up to the building's second storey. The elaborately curtained windows there were all ajar and, now that he listened properly, he recognised 'Supermassive' drifting out of them over the street noise. Definitely the right place, then. Or just a _massive_ coincidence.

 

Lips quirked in an unconscious smirk, he reached the plain grey door to find it slightly ajar. When he nudged it with the corner of his satchel, it swung slowly open to reveal a steep flight of stairs leading to another door at the top. Matt stepped inside, hit the light switch to his left with a pointy elbow and eventually managed to balance his luggage on the stairs so he could push the door closed behind him.

 

Gazing upwards, he could just make out something stuck to the door up there. It was a picture of Rowan Atkinson as the second incarnation of Blackadder, from what Rigby had mentioned was one of her favourite TV shows, and it was emblazoned with the legend 'IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, YOU CAN SOD OFF'. Matt was instantly reassured that he'd made the correct decision in coming, and, whistling chirpily, he ran a hand through his hair and started up the stairs.

 

A short wait after he knocked hard on the door when he reached the top, then footsteps on what was clearly an old and creaky floor. The handle turned and the door was pulled inwards to reveal a woman who was _almost_ , but not quite, Rigby. With glasses. She smiled. No dimple. “Can I help you?” And much too polite.

 

Penny Foxton was bewildered. This man seemed _very_ familiar, but she was sure they'd never met before.

 

“Uh... hi,” Matt stumbled briefly before recovering his cool. “You must be Penny. I'm looking for Eleanor...”

 

_He's English! And that nose! I know that nose!_ It couldn't be, could it?! Penny turned her head swiftly to surreptitiously examine a poster just visible through the door to the living room. It bloody was! Unbelievable. What sort of voodoo spell had Nora woven to manage _this_?! Looking back, she gave him a critical once over. He certainly wasn't _un_ attractive, but she honestly couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Oh, well...

“Matthew Bellamy.” It was a statement, not a question. Penny extended a hand to him in greeting.

“Penny Lane Foxton,” Matt returned with a charming grin, taking her hand and shaking it firmly. “Pleased to meet you. I don't mean to be rude, but I would very much like to see your sister.”

Eyebrows raised, Penny answered, “I think I can arrange that. If you'll wait right here, I'll go and fetch her.”

“Thanks so much.”

Nodding in acknowledgement, Penny left Matt and headed towards Eleanor's bedroom. _She told him my middle name. She **knows** how much I hate people knowing it. They always think it has something to do with that vacuous bint Kate Hudson in 'Almost Famous'! _ Fuming as she wrenched open the door to the flat's tiny hallway, Penny had revenge in mind as she came across Nora bellowing, ' _Loneliness be over!_ ' as she vacuumed the floor just inside her bedroom door.

Poking her in the ribs to get her attention, she shouted, “Would you ever turn that racket down?!”

Pouting, Eleanor killed the vacuum cleaner and lowered the volume on 'Map of the Problematique' with ill grace. “What is it?” She demanded snottily.

“There's someone at the door for you.”

 

“Oh. Who?”

 

“It's a courier. He's got a package only you can sign for,” Penny told her with a commendably straight face.

 

“Random. Usually they'll let anyone sign. And I don't even remember buying anything online lately...” Eleanor shrugged. “Whatever. Here, d'you think it's okay for me to go out like this?” A hand was waved to indicate the pyjama pants printed with toothy sharks and the words 'BITE ME!' and the shrunken, faded red Muse t-shirt she was sporting.

 

“Of course,” Penny encouraged, “it's only a courier, after all.”

 

“You're right. Needless vanity. Cheers, Penfold.”

 

As Eleanor moved to get past her, Penny felt a small stab of guilt. What kind of sister would she be to let her meet him with her hair like that? Grabbing the brush off the dresser, she managed to stop Eleanor before she got too far. “Maybe do your hair first, though, Nora. Don't want to give the poor man too much of a fright, eh?”

 

Rolling her eyes, Eleanor carelessly ran the bristles through her wayward strands a few times. Handing the brush back to Penny, she turned to continue to the top of the stairs.

 

Meanwhile, Matt had spent the minute he'd been left alone straining to hear what was being said without going any further into the flat, as he hadn't been invited in yet. So when Eleanor first saw him, he was half-leaning through the door with his head angled inquisitively in the direction the voices were coming from.

 

“Wha...?” She grasped at the door frame for support, internal organs engaged in a pitched battle to be the first to escape her throat. Shock. Total _shock_. Eleanor swept a hand in front of her eyes and blinked repeatedly, but when she looked again, he was still there. “ _Matt_?!”

 

Straightening up as nonchalantly as possible, Matt smiled at her in a way that managed to be both tentative and cockily self-assured at the same time. “Hiya, Rigby love. I was just passing...”

 

He'd spoken. He was _real_! “Bellamy!” Eleanor cried, flinging her arms around his neck with such fervour she almost sent him toppling backwards down the stairs.

 

“Oof!” Matt exclaimed as the breath was knocked out of him and he wobbled precariously on the step before righting himself. “Pleased to see me, then?!” His hands moved themselves to cup her arse with no input from him. _She really does have the juiciest set of buttocks I've-_

 

“Not really. I'm faking it. Convincing, eh?” Eleanor gasped. The rate that thoughts were racing through her brain was making her dizzy. _What is he doing here? What does it mean? What did I do to deserve this? I **know** I don't deserve this! Why does my sister hate me? She must do to have let me meet him looking like-_

 

“Give that woman an Oscar,” Matt declared, capturing Rigby's luscious pink lips with his own. She let out a smothered groan and opened her mouth immediately, almost swooning as his tongue touched hers once more. It had been less than three weeks since they'd done this, but she was aching for it all the same. It was dangerous what he did to her... the mind-controlling, knicker-ruining, alien-spawned, pixie-sized _nutter._

 

“Oh, _fuck_.” Eleanor fisted a hand in Matt's hair as he abandoned her ravaged mouth to kiss her throat. “What about 'what happens on tour, stays on tour', randy rock star?”

 

“As far as I'm concerned, I'm still _on_ tour,” he rasped into her tangled hair.

 

“You can tour me _anytime_ , Bellamy, but there is no way in the fiery pit of Hell I am letting you in my flat.”

 

“Huh?” Matt's attention was elsewhere, having just realised she wasn't wearing a bra - Muse t-shirt, no bra... _hot -_ so it took him longer than usual to process this. “I'm not allowed in?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why the fuck not?!”

 

“Believe me when I tell you that you don't _want_ to come in. The décor will scare you. Go find a hotel and I'll come see you there. After I've roughed my sister up for betraying me so heinously and spent several hours in the bathroom futilely attempting to beautify myself.”

 

“Rigby,” Matt sighed, taking a deep breath. His hands embraced her fetchingly-curved hips and pulled her flush against him. “You don't need to beautify yourself. It's not like I haven't seen you in this state before, and I'd hardly have travelled all this way if I didn't find it gorgeous, would I? Killer outfit, by the way. But I really, _really_ don't want to go to a hotel. I've spent eighteen freakin' months in a hotel. I'm tired. So tired. I just want in your flat. Now. Please. I could not care less about the Muse-related décor. Shit, I'd probably have been disappointed if there wasn't any.”

 

Eleanor bit her lip, conflicted. He'd come here for her. How wonderful was that?! And he did know what she was like in that regard, she'd never tried to hide it. But it would be so much more personal if he was in _her_ space. Like he was walking around inside her head, assessing the contents. It made her feel exposed, vulnerable. That was the thing, however. Matt was always very open with her, he didn't try and disguise anything about himself; you took him as he was. So it was only fair that she did the same for him.

 

“I'm sorry, Matt. You're right. You've thrown me a bit here, I'll admit. I don't know how to behave. But I'm sure I'll figure something out. Come in, then, Mr. Bellamy, and make yourself at home.” Eleanor lifted his hand from her hip and pressed an adoring kiss to the palm, then tugged him off the stairs and through to the flat's living area. She directed him onto the couch, gave him a fleeting but radiant smile, and disappeared to collect his bags.

 

The first thing Matt noticed as he stifled a huge yawn and let his eyes roam interestedly around the room was the door of the fridge. There, multi-coloured magnetic letters spelt out the words-

 

**I SHAGGED MATT BELLAMY**

 

Giggling manically, Matt picked up one of the approximately six dozen cushions in the room and positioned it behind his head, getting comfy. Yeah, this was totally one of the best ideas Dom had ever had.

 

***

 

“'Lo,” a voice mumbled out of the laptop's speakers.

 

“Dom! I wasn't sure you'd be home.”

 

“Bells?” There was much rustling and muttering before Dom spoke again. “You woke me up, you lousy fucker. Why d'you sound all echoey? More significantly, where are you?!”

 

“I'm using Skype, that's why. And I'm in Rigby's bed!” Matt boasted.

 

“Oh. I see. That means you got a warm welcome, then. And where's Rigby?”

 

“At work,” Matt grumbled, momentarily deflated. “Won't be back for hours.”

 

“Huh? Couldn't she take the day off?”

 

“Woman used up all her leave on the tour. Can't take anymore until next year. So I'm all alone during the day. She did promise to pull a sicky once, though.”

 

“That bites. Still, you can just sleep during the day, right? Not that much of a hardship.”

 

“Yeah, it's not _too_ bad, I suppose.” Matt yawned loudly. “And this bed is bloody comfy.”

 

“Ha! What's her place like? Did you meet her sister? What's she look like? Fit as Eleanor?” Dom quizzed.

 

“Nosey twat. I met Penny, yes. It was her that answered the door to me. And she's fit. Looks a lot like Rigby, but her hair's less crazy, and she wears glasses.”

 

“Sexy glasses? You know, repressed librarian who turns into a kinky bitch in the bedroom. Maybe a bit bossy, but really just begging to be told what to do?”

 

“Jesus. I worry about you sometimes, Howard. Why does it matter? Not like you'll ever meet her.”

 

“Indulge me. D'you know what she does for a living?”

 

“Bizarrely given who she's sister to, she's an accountant.”

 

“ _Nice_ ,” Dom hissed. “I'm picturing Rigby in a tailored suit with a tight skirt, hair in a bun, calculator in her pocket, black-framed glasses on the end of her nose as she peers over them disapprovingly. It's a deadly image.”

 

“Shut up, you perv,” Matt sniggered. “Want to know what this place is like or not?”

 

“Go on, then.”

 

“Bright. Like, seriously _bright_. Colour everywhere, and it's cluttered, but alarmingly well-organised, so there's still heaps of space. And there's hundreds and hundreds of books. I like it. Very Foxton.”

 

“And are we...”

 

“In evidence? Mate, we're all over the fucking show! I don't remember posing for the photos on half of these posters, and I didn't know we had this much merchandise! Eleanor wasn't lying when she claimed we'd made a fortune off of her. Silly girl didn't want to let me in when I arrived because she didn't want me to see it all.”

 

“You don't care, though, right?”

 

“Nah. I mean, it's a little unsettling to keep seeing your own face when there's no mirror, but there's so much else going on around it that it's not that big a deal. Sort of blends in.”

 

“Take photos, Bells. Especially of Penny. I'm curious. So... you good, then? Pleased you decided to go?”

 

“Definitely. Thanks for the push, Dommers.”

 

“Like you wouldn't have gone anyway! But I'll go do that thing you wanted me to do tomorrow, okay?”

 

“Cheers for that. Rigby'll be chuffed, I think. Oh, she told me to tell you she did watch the KROQ web-cast and 'Phwoarrr!', or something along those lines.”

 

Dom chuckled diabolically from London. “That was the reaction I was hoping for, yes. Well, keep in touch, Matt. Call when Eleanor's about one time so I can talk to her. Otherwise, see you at Chris' on Boxing Day. I'm going back to sleep now.”

 

“Yeah, me too. Still knackered. Need some energy for when the landlady gets home.”

 

“I can imagine! Later.”

 

“Later, Dommykins!”

 

***

 

Over the next week Matt and Rigby fell into an unintentional routine. He would wake up with her in the morning, when they might engage in a lazy, laughing fumble under the covers before Eleanor distracted him with something shiny so she could actually get out of bed and ready for work. Matt was strangely fascinated by her pre-work behaviour patterns, so he'd follow her around and get in her way, asking endless questions and generally being a pest until Eleanor was so vexed she was actually glad to get away. But then she'd have to stop herself from turning the car around when she was halfway to work and going straight back to him.

 

Rigby didn't eat breakfast at home, so Matt would make himself something when she was gone and then go back to bed for the rest of the morning. He was weary beyond belief after a year and a half of constant travel; endless late nights and ever-switching time zones, not to mention the physically-draining reality of repeated performances. It took him months to get back to a normal (for him) way of day-to-day living after a tour.

 

Several hours of gratifying unconsciousness later, Matt would stir himself from Eleanor's lavishly bedecked four poster bed (it had a canopy and curtains on all sides, so when it was all closed up and the lights were out it was like the world fell away, and nothing existed but the two of them and the breathless pleasure they were so skilled at bringing each other. He could see why she was so fond of it), take a shower (the cubicle was so ludicrously cramped you literally could _not_ fit two people in there and still move. And it's not like they hadn't _tried_ ), call a taxi and meet Rigby for her lunch break. They would either go to a cafe she liked, or grab something from the shop (apparently in New Zealand one of those local convenience store thingies was called a 'dairy'. He was learning so much on this trip!) and eat in the park. The weather had been lovely, warm but not hot, and Wellington was a fantastic little city with a really sweet vibe. Matt was very taken with the place.

 

When Eleanor reluctantly returned to work, Matt would either go exploring, checking out spots she'd recommended to him and generally being a bit of a tourist, or just go back to the flat and relax. Maybe have a nap, muck about on the Internet, read or watch a DVD. He'd hired an amp from a music shop over the weekend, so he might have a session on the guitar, see if inspiration struck. And, of course, try and restrain himself from rifling through Rigby's stuff.

 

Despite all his efforts to stave it off, however, full-scale boredom would set-in around half-five. But thankfully this usually coincided with the owner of the aforementioned stuff getting home and plastering him to the couch with the... _lustiness_ of her greeting. Clothing rearranged and breathing calmed, they'd settle down to talk. Mostly bollocks, trying to make each other laugh, but sometimes they'd hit upon something more profound, too. And it felt natural, easy, to be in this situation together. Just ordinary, everyday life. But it wasn't ordinary, not at all, and Eleanor could never forget that, even if it seemed to her that Matt had. It was surreal, but she'd take what was being offered while she could get it.

 

Eventually Penny would arrive, who worked much longer hours than her sister, and they'd realise it was time for dinner. Eleanor was a demon baker, with a deft touch when it came to making cakes etc, but had no clue when it came to meals. She just didn't _do_ savoury. So they'd get takeaways or go out. Matt had had a vague idea that he could make pasta, but had none of the right tools and the kitchen had almost no work surface, so he'd given it up. Rigby knew a really not too shabby Italian restaurant, anyway.

 

Penny wasn't about much, being quite career-focused and 'freakishly grown up', as Eleanor called it, but she also had a boyfriend (Rigby: 'I do like him as a person, but the man's a _lawyer,_ for Christ's sake. It's a matter of principle.') who she stayed with quite often. She was clearly as clever as her sister, but a distinct personality. They were close, but had almost nothing in common, having vastly dissimilar tastes and opinions. But Penny was funny, too, and Matt got along well enough with her after he'd learnt never to use her middle name, even if she really did _not_ like Muse's music.

 

After they'd eaten, Rigby and Matt pretty much went straight to bed. They were having _a lot_ of sex because, well, they were fucking _great_ at it, so why the fuck not?! And it was as sense-warpingly epic as ever, but somehow... _different_ to what it had been like between them only a few weeks earlier. Somehow... _more_. Neither of them were too keen to examine the reasons behind this, though, so they didn't mention the change, just shagged like orgasms were going to be outlawed any day now.

 

Eleanor was so dazed and exhausted as a result, and by Matt's presence in general, that she kept accidentally sewing her own clothes to the curtains she was making, and her hands were covered in tiny puncture marks from where she'd jabbed herself with needles when her mind was elsewhere. Her boss kept giving her searching looks, but luckily hadn't said anything about it yet. Thank God Matt was flying back to England on the 23rd and she had Christmas to recover from her blissful ordeal, because she was going to get her arse fired for incompetence at this rate.

 

***

 

“Ha! Guess what, Bellamy?” Eleanor looked up from her laptop, where she was engaged in her regular online 'Fangirl Forage' - something she saw no need to put an end to just because a major factor behind it was currently occupying her flat.

 

“Ooh. So many possibilities,” Matt responded from the armchair opposite, lowering the old copy of _NME_ he was reading (his memory was shot. He didn't recall doing this interview _at all._ It was a good one, though. Matt was rather proud). “What _can_ be happening on Planet Muser today?”

 

“You've been rumbled, that's what.”

 

“Rumbled? How d'you mean, Foxton?”

 

“I mean someone's seen you. Here in Wellington.” Her eyes lowered back to the screen. “A dude who was on his way to a job interview so couldn't stop is swearing blind on Muse Live that he saw Matt Bellamy at a table outside a cafe on Cuba Street two days ago... Oh, and he was with a woman with mad hair, big sunglasses and a Muse t-shirt.” She smiled across at him. “That'd be me, I think.”

 

“Certainly sounds like it,” Matt agreed, eyeing her chestnut locks affectionately. “Should I be concerned? Has my predilection for horny fangirls from New Zealand been revealed to the band's appalled fan-base?”

 

“Nah. Nobody believes him. There're some rather scathing posts in this thread, actually. Feel sorry for the bloke. After all, he's not lying. Some tosser's even waded in to claim it can't be true because he saw both you _and_ Dom on Oxford Street in London the same day. Dirty fibber.”

 

“Dom... London... aha! Knew I'd forgotten something. Back in a sec.”

 

Eleanor looked on in infatuated bemusement as Matt fled the room at speed. “Twitchy wee freakazoid,” she cooed. “And he's all _mine_...” Her face fell. “For three more days.”

 

“Here, wench, catch!” An unidentified object came flying towards Eleanor from the door to the hallway and bypassed her hurriedly outstretched fingers to whack her in the chest.

 

“Mmmm, that's where I'd choose to land, too,” Matt murmured with a single, sleazily-arched brow. “Open your pwesents then, unco.”

 

“Pwesents? In the plural?!” Mild annoyance abandoned, she put her laptop on the table and picked up the battered parcel resting in her lap, turning it over in her hands. “This has Dom's address on it. Man, imagine the hormone-charged delirium I could unleash if I posted it in the PDT! Mwahahahahaha! Debauched drummer better make a point of never fucking me off. _Anyway_ , is one of my pwesents from Dom, then?”

 

“Yep. To say thanks for your tailoring job. Don't know what it is, though. Other - _better_ \- one from me, obvi-”

 

“Can't talk, Bellamy. Being greedy,” Eleanor butted in, eyes glinting avariciously as she ripped open the padded plastic mail bag and dived a hand inside. “Ooh. Feels shiny.” And she pulled out something metallic and effortlessly styley that she instantly identified. “Fuck me! 'Tis his super sexy silver jacket.” She lifted it to her nose and inhaled. “Smells like him, too! Is he seriously giving this to me?!”

 

“Trying to show me up, the rat bastard. And how does she know what he smells like?!” Matt muttered under his breath before answering. “He wouldn't have sent it otherwise. But why would he think you wanted it?”

 

“We were having a natter about clothes - think it was in Sydney - and I told him I was insane jealous of this,” Rigby ran her hands over it lovingly, fingers feeling out the shape of something folded in the pocket, “but that I'd never been able to find anything even remotely like it. The doll must've remembered...” She tailed off as the piece of paper she'd found opened out between her hands and she started reading-

 

_To the object of my 'Dishevelled Fangirl Lust',_

_No luck trying to get you a new one, so I thought, 'What the fuck, she can have the original.' Hope it fits. You can fiddle about ~~in~~ with my pants whenever you like, darling. The results are **spectacular**._

_Inciting 'Sweaty Drummer Love' since the mid-nineties,_

_Dominic._

_PS. Give my regards to your sister._

“Why does Dom want me to give Penny his 'regards'?!” Eleanor laughed, eyes glittering with delight as she gazed up at Matt.

 

“No idea, Rigby love,” he informed her, keeping his best friend's pervy interest in her sister to himself for now. “Bollocks to Dom, anyway. Open mine, witch!”

 

“Ooh. _Commanding_ ,” she growled, and, smirking, Matt sat on the arm of the couch and bit her playfully on the shoulder. Batting him away, Eleanor reverently put her - _bitchin'_ \- new silver jacket aside and proceeded to unearth a flat, square item from the roughly-opened parcel still sitting on her bent legs, idly taunting, “What's the point in biting me if it doesn't leave a mark?!”

 

Matt watched avidly as she slipped the flap of the white envelope she was grasping out and let the contents slide on to her waiting palm. “Shut up. I know that's difficult for you, but please try. And _look_.”

 

Eleanor shut up, but not because Matt had asked her to. It's just she was incapable of speech. In _her_ hand, surely the greatest treasure known to Muser-kind: the 'Muse EP'. Perfect and unblemished. It's limited edition number? 001. She was actually shaking, afraid she was going to drop it as she stared up at Matt in absolute astonishment.

 

“A tad egotistical on my part, but not unprecedented, I hope,” he said quietly. “I thought this might mean more to you than some random trinket. Me, Dom and Chris kept the first three copies. Our first proper release? It was a big fucking deal; we didn't want the promo ones, we wanted the real thing. But it's just sat in a box that's moved from home to home since then, so I want you to have it. I know you'll look after it. Respect it. I understand they're worth a few quid these days, but I'd be well pissed if you flogged it on eBay.”

 

Shaking her head in frantic denial of such an idea, Eleanor stood up slowly, moving carefully to the shelf in one of the room's bookcases that housed the majority of her Muse collection. She placed the seemingly innocuous yet unbelievably precious CD down with calculated precision; on its bottom edge, face out. Admiring the way the light caught it in silence for a few seconds - mentally constructing an air-tight glass display case and hiring a giant, trigger-happy security guard - she turned back to Matt, whose face was a picture of mischievous thrill at her response, and simply ordered, “ _Bedroom_ , Bellamy.”

“Oh. Why?” He enquired lowly, fingers already travelling to his waist to unbuckle his belt.

Unable to form sentences of more than two words, she half-whispered, “ _Physical_ gratitude,” and ran the tip of her pink tongue along her full bottom lip, pupils dilating in arousal.

 

Belt undone, Matt held a hand out to her. “Lead the way, Foxton.”

 

***

 

“Have you ever thought about moving back to England, Rigby?”

 

“Huh?” Eleanor glanced away from where she was pawing through the wardrobe trying to find something to wear to work - laundry hadn't been a priority since Matt arrived - to see the cause of her slovenliness sitting Buddha-style on the bed; still an utterly incongruous sight to her poor, befuddled brain. “Oh. Sure. I've thought about it. I had an ace time the two years I was there, and the live music scene is out of sight compared to this cultural wasteland, but the reality is that I _can't_. Not if I want to work legally.”

 

“Explain.”

 

Having come across a quite dull but still attractive black shirt dress, she pulled it off the hanger and started putting it on over her bra and knickers. “Kiwis get a two-year visa that allows them to work in the UK, but once that period's over, that's it. Only allowed back for holidays from then on. Unless you can wangle a work permit - I don't do the sort of job where that's an option - you're stuck. You could slip under the radar, overstay and work black, but it's tough. Travelling overseas would be impossible. Doesn't seem worth it.”

 

Humming thoughtfully, Matt followed her movements as she tied the garment's sash and released her damp hair from the towel wrapped around it, picking up her brush. Sharp hazel eyes met his. “Why d'you ask?”

 

“It'd be nice not to have to travel 12,000 miles to get the ride,” he giggled, fiddling with a curtain tieback.

 

“You're Matt Bellamy. You don't need to travel twelve _feet_ to get the ride,” Eleanor quipped.

 

“True,” he returned, nodding gravely.

 

“Git.”

 

“Know you don't mean that!” Matt sang smugly, eyeing her curves in the plain but flattering dress.

 

“You know _nothing_.” She shook her hair brush at him, hand on hip.

 

“I know I can come back for a couple of weeks in January. Is that something you'd like to know, too?”

 

Her joyful little jump and prominent dimple were answer enough before she breathed, “ _Very_ much, Bells.”


	6. Part Five

_April 2008 (London, UK)_

****

**_River running free, you know how I feel..._ **

****

“I love that woman, but she does dance like a complete loony,” Dom shouted over the pounding music.

 

Matt put his drink down and turned on his seat to look at the dank, heaving club's dancefloor, where Eleanor was distinguished by her flying mane of hair and sunflower yellow dress with white trim as she jumped around ecstatically to 'This Charming Man' by the Smiths with - a clearly insufferably pleased with himself - Tom.

 

“I know,” he hollered back with an amused smirk, “but at least she knows it. In fact, Rigby doesn't call what she does 'dancing' at all. I believe the term she used was 'freestyle moshing'. Look how happy she seems, though. Fucking adorable. And fucking _hot_.”

 

“Oh, you are _so_ smitten,” Dom teased, poking Matt in the upper arm purely for the sake of being annoying.

 

Automatically slapping his hand away, Matt gave a careless shrug. “I'm not even going to _try_ and deny it, Dom, so don't bother.” _Even though I may have finally figured out that I'm a tad **more** than smitten..._

 

Dom just grinned complacently, teeth glinting in the semi-darkness. He took another swig of his beer, eyes sweeping around the glorified basement, brow wrinkled. “Look, Bells, it's been niggling at me since we arrived. Why the hell do I know this place?!”

 

“According to the walking Muse Wiki over there,” he tipped his glass in Eleanor's direction, “we played a gig here at the Borderline in August 1999. And no, I don't remember it, either.”

 

“Scary. She knows more about our career than we do.”

 

“I like scary. Keeps things interesting,” Matt mused. “But I think it's time we faced the reality that Freaky Fangirl there knows more about pretty much _everything_ than we do. Foxton - shockingly - has an IQ in excess of 130. The average IQ being 100.”

 

“I'm not surprised, actually. It takes brain power to come up with the gold that pours out of that mouth. But there's no way she told you that herself. Did you riffle through her stuff or something, you rotter?!” Dom questioned.

 

“I did not,” Matt denied mildly - or as mildly as one could when forced to yell in order to be heard. “Penny the Kinky Accountant - Rigby must never know we call her sister that - told me so.”

 

Nabbing a stool that had been vacated nearby, Dom sat down, checking the tabletop fastidiously before leaning his elbows on it. “Why would Penny the Kinky Accountant tell you that?”

 

“It came up in the midst of a lecture she was giving me. Rather frightening, to tell the truth. She cornered me one evening on my second visit - I think Eleanor had gone to the supermarket 'cause we'd run out of condoms - and basically handed my arse to me on a plate, finishing with the immortal words, 'Rock star or not, if you cause my sister unnecessary heartache, I will snap you in half like the twig you are, stick boy.' Found out a load of things about Rigby I never would've known otherwise, though.”

 

The drummer's roar of laughter was so loud heads turned. “Oh God, you've got to wonder at what their parents are like with offspring like that!” Dom spluttered. “When Penny gave you this deliciously disapproving lecture, did she have her glasses on?”

 

“Um, yeah. Why?”

 

“Ugh. Lucky fucker,” the drummer complained. “That's so fucking horny.”

 

Rolling his eyes in resignation at his one-track-minded best friend, Matt took another wincing sip of his atrocious red wine. He didn't know how much longer he could put up with its epic crapness. Beer was becoming more and more attractive as he gave Dom's Heineken the glad eye.

 

The glad eye Dom - and, okay, _him_ \- had been receiving had not gone unnoticed, but thankfully they'd not been recognised; or, if they had, they'd not been approached. The place was bloody gloomy, after all, and everyone was out of their tree. Eleanor had really wanted to come here, but had been willing to go it alone if they were concerned about being accosted. Matt had informed her that it was no big deal even if they were, and that _of course_ he wasn't letting her go to some sweaty, sex-sodden club that was 80% indie boy without him to supervise. Her nostrils had flared in displeasure at this, but he'd not missed the minuscule smile that had alighted on her face as she'd turned away. Over the last couple of days he found himself overtaken to an even greater degree by the urge to please her, do things that would bring _her_ happiness. It really took very little effort to make that dimple appear, and he was rather addicted to seeing it.

 

Flicking him on the forehead to get his attention, Dom leaned in and asked, “How difficult would it be to get Rigby to bring the Kinky Accountant with her next time she visits?”

 

“Dom, for Christ's sake, you've never met the woman,” Matt replied in a narked tone, rubbing his forehead distractedly. “How d'you know you'd even like her?!”

 

“I like Rigby. A lot,” Dom reasoned. “So why wouldn't I like her sister?”

 

“Because they're not particularly alike in personality. Besides, do you know how much nagging I had to do to get Foxton over here in the first place? It was humiliating! I'm fucking _Matt Bellamy_ , and I almost had to _beg_ to get one of my band's own fangirls to visit me! That _can't_ be right, surely?!” Matt gesticulated with abandon as his impromptu diatribe gained momentum. “So I will _not_ be attempting to get said infuriating minx's sister over here as well on the off chance she'd be stupid and/or judgement-impaired enough to let you in her knickers. Al- _feckin'_ -right, Howard?!”

 

“Some best friend you are,” he responded childishly. “I ask you to do one _tiny_ thing for me and you won't... Wait a minute, you had to _nag_ to get Eleanor on a plane?!”

 

“Yes. I'm not proud of it, but it had to be done.” Finally giving in to temptation, Matt pushed his red wine away and stole Dom's beer, gulping it down thirstily. “She legally can't move to the UK, you know. So I asked her to come to Dubai and got shot down. Didn't have enough leave, couldn't afford it and wasn't going to let me pay. Same with South Africa. I was starting to get a bit desperate, and really wanted to get laid, so I tried threats and intimidation. Muse-related, of course. Letting Fatboy Slim remix the whole of 'Absolution', collaborating with Justin Timberlake; stuff like that. But she didn't believe me, 'cause she's not a dumb arse. Finally we book the Albert Hall, and I'm sure I'm on to a winner now, so I just tell her straight out, 'You're fucking coming, wench'; which, on reflection, probably wasn't wise, as she's got a _wee_ problem with being told what to-”

 

“Breathe, Bells,” Dom interrupted with a laugh, pinching his beer back only to find it empty. “Oi. You owe me a drink, _stick boy_. I'll have a JD and Coke, tah very much.”

 

“You what?”

 

Dom swished the drained bottle from side to side close to Matt's face. “I. Am. Parched. Alcohol me.”

 

“Oh. Right.” Standing, he fumbled in his back pocket for his wallet, eyes naturally moving to check on Rigby, who seemed to be engaged in some sort of competition with The Kirk to see who was bouncier. Their dancing techniques were very similar, actually. Matt had taken three steps towards the bar when he was stopped by Dom's hand on his shoulder.

 

“You didn't finish. How _did_ you get her to come here, then?”

 

“Didn't take much in the end. Told her the Futureheads were supporting and she's like, 'Jesus, why didn't you  say so?! I've always wanted to see 'Hounds of Love' live. I'll call you back when I've booked my ticket', and hung up on me,” Matt explained.

 

“So... she's pretty much messing with you 24/7, then?!” Dom sniggered.

 

“Pretty much,” the singer agreed, breaking out in an appreciative grin. “Fan- _freakin'_ -tastic, eh?”

 

“Ha! Think you've met your match, Bells.”

 

“Just maybe, Dommers. Just maybe.”

 

***

 

A couple of hours later and Matt was pleasantly pissed; about two drinks away from rat-arsed and messy. A sensible man would stop now. He'd yet to decide if he was a sensible man. Eleanor was also giddily intoxicated, and very hyper. The Borderline was one of her favourite places in the whole world, and being here with Matt (and Dom and Tom, too) was a heretofore undiscovered level of _amazing_.

 

Being a sulky spoilsport, Matt had so far refused to dance with her (he shook his heavenly behind onstage when shielded by a Manson or he didn't do it at all, apparently), so Tom had been her companion on the floor for most of the night, and a very fun one at that. You couldn't _not_ love Captain Kirk; it was obvious why Muse had been such close friends with him for so long. Dom, however, was more inclined to dance the more he had to drink, so had lately been making his presence known. And shit, the boy could _move_. He had natural rhythm, after all. The women in the club were on the verge of forming an orderly queue to be the next to get near him, and Eleanor was very smug that she had some of his attention (she wasn't deluded enough to believe she ever had _all_ of it; not with Dom's roving eye. He was cutely lecherous and impossible to get upset with). It was like he had a flashing neon sign above his head with an arrow pointing downwards reading: 'AN OBSCENELY GOOD TIME – GET IT HERE, GIRLS.'

 

Giggling to herself at the this mental image - the sign was lime green to match Dom's pants, framed by stars - Eleanor waved at Matt standing by the steps down to the - sticky with spilled alcohol - dancefloor. _Fuck me, he's tasty_ , she slobbered to herself. **_Look_** _at him._ He'd indulgently allowed her to pick what he wore tonight, just as she'd let him do the same for her, and was consequently even more illegally appealing than usual. Form-fitting red jeans and a simple tight white t-shirt with a v-neck (possibly purchased from Baby Gap; it was that small) finished by the black and white belt that made her want to whip him with it, short hair ruffled just _so_ , and he was the most _devastating_ man in this sector of the galaxy; if not in this and every other universe. _Score, Foxton. Fucking **score**! I am so in lo- lust, LUST! I am so in **lust** with that man..._

 

They eyefucked each other for a few mutually-beneficial seconds before Matt cocked an enquiring eyebrow and tapped his watch where his hand rested on the pillar he was leaning against. “Soon,” Rigby mouthed, beaming as she unconsciously bopped her head along to 'Rocks' by Primal Scream. He nodded easily, then gestured lewdly, face deliberately neutral.

 

“You wish!” Eleanor tossed her head tauntingly and swayed over to Dom, nabbing him back from the girl he was with so quickly she didn't have a chance to protest. The booze-drenched blonde gave her a sloppy smirk as his hands settled at her waist. “So, who's getting lucky tonight, then?” She said into his ear, arms clasped loosely around his neck.

 

“Hmmm... you?” Dom returned, warm, bourbon-laced breath stirring her damp hair.

 

“That's guaranteed, but unfortunately not with you. I only shag boys who play guitar.”

 

“Oh, well. Worth a try. Though I _can_ play the guitar, just not very well.” A hand was lifted and Dom pointed - not very discreetly -  at a woman with painted-on skinny jeans and long, artfully-streaked hair dancing a few metres away. “Her, then. She looks lost. I'll be a gentleman and help her home.”

 

“Yes, but whose home?” Rigby responded smartly. “D'you know this damsel-in-distress's name, at least?”

 

“I do.” Dom looked proud at this achievement. “It's... Saffron. Yeah, that's the one. She seems nice, don't you think?”

 

Eleanor glanced at this 'Saffron', who was giving her a stare of deepest loathing. “'Nice' isn't the word I'd use, Dommy. But you'd better go dance with her. What if she gets so lost even you can't find her?” She pushed his wet fringe back fondly and pecked him on the cheek. “Be safe, my man.”

 

“Ooh, that Bellamy is one fortunate son of a bitch!” His 1000-watt grin had her quite flustered at such close range. Squeezing her waist briefly, Dom kissed the end of her nose and grooved away, leaving Eleanor chuckling in his wake.

 

Making a point of not looking straight at Matt, though she'd noticed he'd been joined by Tom, she boogeyed contentedly by herself to Depeche Mode as she searched behind the bar for a clock. Wow, it was that late?! The place would be shutting down soon. Eleanor hoped the way she'd coquettishly batted her eyelashes at the DJ earlier when she made her request had done the job. If he didn't play the song soon, he wouldn't have the chance.

 

'Enjoy the Silence' eventually came to an end and was replaced by a very familiar and much loved pounding bass line. _Oh, yah!_ Rigby clapped her hands together gleefully, smoothed her tangled hair back and skipped nearer the edge of the dancefloor so she had a clear line of sight to Matt.

 

His head had shot up in recognition almost immediately, breaking the stream of drunken bollocks that had been flowing between him and Tom, who'd also identified 'Hysteria' and started cackling and headbanging along. Matt stifled a smirk. _The trouble-making little madam..._ He found Dom first. The shameless bastard was wearing a shit-eating grin as he threw himself about extravagantly, pausing occasionally to feel up the woman he was with (it was only fair, as she seemed to have had her hands permanently welded to his backside). Dom caught his eye and saluted him roguishly. Matt returned it. _Fucking incorrigible wanker._ When his gaze drifted to Foxton, she threw her hands up in mock despair, as if to say, 'What are you going to do, eh?!' before crooking an encouraging finger his way.

 

Matt shook his head defiantly, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing his lips in a mulish pout. Eleanor swept a dismissive hand at him. “Fine,” she enunciated carefully. “Bite me!” Her eyes fell shut, and she let the music take her over. Aware she wasn't the most graceful of dancers, she also knew that Muse had a quite startling affect on the way she moved, getting her so lost she neither knew nor cared how she appeared to others. 'Hysteria' was a powerfully _sexual_ song (hell, the entirety of 'Absolution' positively _vibrated_ with repressed desire. That's why it was her favourite), so she went where it took her. Bugger it if Bellamy was a witness.

 

The man himself had sound reasons for being a hold-out - he liked to watch. Matt had spent five concerts observing Rigby's response to their music when his own duties permitted, and the more he saw of it, the more of a dirty, self-satisfied kick he got. Her preoccupation was captivating, the way she seemed to be another place altogether. They were obviously doing something right if _this_ was the reaction they were getting.  He could see but not hear her singing along, face glowing from hours of exertion in the close, clammy confines of the Borderline's brick walls and low ceiling. Hair clung to her temples as her dress clung to her skin, and she was a breath-catchingly carnal sight. Eleanor wasn't traditionally 'pretty', her features were too strong for that, but she had a unique, striking face that... _blazed_ when she smiled, though it was perpetually covered by an invisible yet tangible layer of mischief that she almost used as protection. The fierce intelligence she possessed was similarly wielded, but Matt found it one of the qualities he prized the most. So, so clever and, though she was at pains to hide it, so caring. Plus, honestly, how she teased and insulted him was just _crazy_ hot and she fucked like a _dream_. Really, what _wasn't_ to love?!

 

Hips swinging in an almost indecently suggestive way and head tipped wantonly back to expose her tender white throat, Matt watched the words, “ _'Cause I want it now. I want it now. Give me your heart and your soul..._ ” pass Rigby's plump lips and felt a twinging in his jeans and an itch in his fingertips that he wasn't inclined to ignore. Dumping his drink, he spared half a second to wave goodbye to Tom and then hopped down to the dancefloor, where he swiftly circled his arms around Eleanor's sinuously twisting torso and pulled her close.

 

Her eyes cracked slowly open and she gave him a grin that said it all.

 

“I want it _now_ ,” Matt hissed, licking her neck. “Let's go.”

 

***

 

Taxi ride lost in a blur of heated looks and sneaky gropes, a thankfully speedy twenty-five minutes later and they were a panting heap of semi-clothed limbs on the red couch in Matt's lounge (how could a _couch_ be sexy?! Fucked if Eleanor knew, but this one certainly was). Her dress was caught around her waist and she still had her black knee boots on, but she was underwear-free. Matt had lost everything from the waist down but was still wearing his t-shirt. Eleanor didn't think she'd let him take it off. The way his nipples pressed against the stretched fabric made her mouth water and she liked shoving her hands underneath it to get at his warm flesh.

 

“Slinkiest piece of rock 'n' roll arse on the planet,” she rasped as his hand disappeared up her dress and between her splayed thighs. “Yes... _yes,_ ” Rigby whined into Matt's shoulder as he toyed with her slick, expectant folds. Heaving for breath already, she forcibly turned Matt's head to the side so she could get to that patch of skin behind his left ear that made him squirm, mouthing it softly as she wriggled into his hand.

 

“What do you want, Miss Foxton?” Matt asked in a seductive drawl, feeling her wetness coat his fingers. “You better tell me, or I'll just take what _I_ want.”

 

There _was_ something she wanted, actually, something she'd wanted since she'd first seen him violate a guitar all those years ago, but didn't feel ready to ask for until now. Grabbing him by the wrist, she tugged Matt's hand out from under her skirt and he turned his head back so they were nose to nose, brows raised in question. “I want to watch while you jerk yourself off.” And she moved his hand down and wrapped it around his cock.

 

He blinked, once, but otherwise appeared totally unsurprised by this request, nodding his acquiescence with the barest upwards flicker at the corner of his lips. Eleanor grinned saucily, turned on beyond belief at the very _idea_ , and levered herself away to push him into an - inexplicably elegant given his state - sprawl against the arm of the couch. Crawling to the other end, she seated herself facing him, the leather of her boots refreshingly cool on the flushed skin of her thighs as she folded her legs beneath her.

 

Not having seen this one coming, Matt was nevertheless more than glad to give the lady whatever she wanted; especially because it was yet more evidence of what an enchantingly pervy bitch she was. Oh, he was _so_ asking for _that_ before she left now. _Not thinking about her leaving, **not** thinking about her leaving! _ Fighting off this buzz-killing thought, he refocused his attention to divide it evenly between the - always gratifying - sensation of his own admirable erection in his palm and watching his _wicked_ Rigby watch him.

 

 _Mmmm... sometimes dreams **do** come true_ , Eleanor sighed internally, seldom-blinking eyes fixed on the moral-melting image of Matt's truly beautiful pianist's fingers encasing his hard length. He had a _lovely_ cock. And the play of muscles beneath the surface of his perfectly pale arm as they tensed... She released an indecipherable whimper as his deceptively delicate wrist flexed and he began to stroke himself, long and languidly from base to head.

 

He didn't plan to make a sound if he could help it, anxious to pick up every minute noise Rigby let slip. He wasn't going to close his eyes, either, as he didn't want to miss a thing. It was so dissolute, felt so forbidden - though there was really no reason it should - but that made it _good_ , so good _._ And didn't he live to perform? Smirking crookedly, Matt tightened his grip, feeling his cheeks blush with heat as his heartbeat raced.

 

 _I could not look away if my life depended on it._ Taking deep, even breaths to prevent herself from hyperventilating from overstimulation, Eleanor scrunched the fabric of her crumpled dress between her fingers, dying to either touch Matt or touch herself. She didn't know _what_ she wanted exactly, but felt herself swell and pulse with arousal, not needing to look at her bare breasts to know how pronounced her nipples would be. In the privacy of her own head she wasn't ashamed to admit she'd got herself off thinking about a scenario just like this. There was something about Matt - he didn't even have to _try_ \- that incited depravity; one of his many special skills. He'd joked once in an interview that he fancied the idea of starting a cult and leading all his followers to mass suicide, not realising he was half-way there already. Musers were a loyal bunch, and Matt _was_ very charismatic. _But this cult better have lots of questionable sexual practices to make it worth my while..._

Matt's mouth fell open in inexpressible pleasure as he ran his thumbnail along the slit at the tip of his cock and he watched from below heavy lids as Rigby swallowed, leaning forwards so her tits swayed enticingly. The room was well-lit from him slapping a switch thoughtlessly on the way in, and it was easy to see how blown her pupils were, the white-knuckle grasp her hands had on her ruined dress. Finally looking up, their gazes collided, Eleanor gasping loudly - a need-laden noise - and raising one hand, but then leaving it hovering in mid-air as if she didn't know what to do with it. Matt bit his lip, using his unoccupied hand to push his t-shirt up to caress the lightly-furred skin of his stomach. Raking the twitchily thin skin of his groin with his nails, he pulled faster and harder at his shaft, now slippery with pre-come as well as Rigby. A tattered groan was surpressed with difficulty. _Cunting hell_...

 

“Fuckity fuck fuck _fuck_ ,” Eleanor cursed, breaking the taut silence as she edged towards him. She'd never seen anything so delectably erotic in her life. Matt was sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll as one man. But she wasn't sure she could take much more of this torture, her deprived loins screaming for attention. Sure, she could do it herself, but it just wasn't the same. Her indecisive hand finally came to rest just above his knee and they both jolted at the contact, Matt's hand closing so harshly around his cock in reflex that he choked, hips bucking. It was too much, all-out visual assault, like her brain had been removed, battered and deep-fried and then re-inserted, so Rigby dug her nails into his thigh and pleaded, “Fuck me, Bellamy. For the love of Muse, fuck me _now._ ”

 

“Been waiting for you to ask,” Matt giggled huskily, “feels like I've been doing this for hours. Not that I don't like it, being talented with my hands and all, but why would I want to come over my own hand when I could come buried inside you instead?” He babbled, drunk and intolerably horny.

 

Verging on hysterical and awash with whiskey herself, Eleanor nodded in vague agreement as she manhandled him until he was upright against the back of the couch, the lazy fiend sitting back and idly thumbing the head of his cock as she muttered, “Sodding condoms. Put one in here earlier,” and wrestled with the cloth bunched around her midriff to find the pocket she needed.

 

Thirty seconds and much swearing later, Rigby towered above Matt as she held herself on her knees straddling his lap, his latex-sheathed erection ready and waiting. His head lolled as he stared up at her with clouded eyes, moistening his lips as he cupped his hand over her mound. “Dripping like the filthy voyeur you are, my pervtastic love.” Matt pressed the heel of his palm upwards. “Won't you _come_ down here and join me?”

 

“Way ahead of you, Master Bates,” she replied when her eyes had uncrossed, lowering herself.

 

Instead of moving his hand away, Matt bought his other to join it, using the tips of his fingers to spread her open to take him. Eleanor's legs were trembling and she was moaning piteously before he'd even penetrated her. When she'd taken him half-way inside, he pulled his hands away, grazing her clit as he hurried to clutch her hips. Her face contorted as her knees gave way and she dropped abruptly the rest of the way.

 

Oh, _Jesus_ , she was coming already; so thoroughly and illicitly worked up, having Matt inside her was all she needed. Rigby clawed at his shoulders, barely registering him dorkily saying, “Well, _hello_ there!” to her breasts before burying his face between them as her eyes rolled so far back in their sockets she got a thorough view of the interior of her own head. It was red. _Everything_ was shades of red, the spectrum running from the whorish hues of Matt's bedroom walls to the faded tones of feminine pink. Her mouth gaped soundlessly, body wracked with spasms as Matt thrust upwards, murmuring nonsense as he sucked and bit at her nipples with a ravenous mouth and pointed teeth.

 

“... taste so good, Foxton. And the way you _smell_... like fucking _crack_ or something. _Got to_ fucking... have it.” Matt fucked Eleanor through her orgasm until she was sobbing rapturously into the crown of his head. Holding himself back from joining her was almost painful, he was clenched so irresistibly tight. But oh, how he _loved_ to see her like this; incapable of taking the piss, totally wrecked and sensuous. He fondled her small but perfectly-formed breasts fleetingly as he slid his hands up over her sinful flesh to cradle the back of her neck and direct her face down until their foreheads touched. “ _Rigby_ ,” he wheedled, scratching at her scalp. “You like to watch. Watch me come now.”

 

Prying weighted eyelids up to be confronted by an infinity of sparkling, sex and liquor-glazed cobalt, Eleanor's breath blew fiery and sweet over Matt's lips as she did as instructed. His back arched as he pushed forward and up while pressing her down from above, and his eyes flared wide as he finally let go; throbbing long and slow and deep as he released himself inside her. He wailed like a porn star and it was _so_ hot and he felt _so_ divine and looked _so_ incredible that the rules of human physiology ordered her to come again... and who was she to argue with science?

 

***

 

“ _Everybody knows that I love you, everybody knows that I need you, everybody knows that I do, except you._ ”

 

Matt was wandering back to his music room when Rigby's amateurish but not unpleasant singing reached him from the kitchen. She'd sing along to her iPod _anywhere_ ; she really did not give a flying fuck about what anyone else thought. Grinning goofily, he changed direction.

 

It was Thursday, the eighth day of her visit, and she would be leaving again on Sunday afternoon. With the travelling time involved, it was as long as her leave would allow her to stay, and it'd be another six months before she'd accumulated enough to visit again - if she could afford it. Which she couldn't. Matt knew how much she was paid, and, while it wasn't slave wages, it certainly couldn't accommodate two costly international trips so close together, and Eleanor would _not_ take money from him to help.

 

Just as it was a problem for her to come to the UK, there was a limit to how often _he_ could go to New Zealand. At the moment, between albums and touring only sporadically, it was just viable - though he'd not been able to visit between January and now with the responsibilities of getting 'H.A.A.R.P' finished, promoted and released - but as soon as they went back into the studio and the Muse behemoth lumbered into full-tilt action again it would become more and more of a challenge; if not completely unmanageable. What were they going to do? It was a subject both of them had been avoiding like Muse avoided being compared to Radiohead. They were living for now, because now was... well, it was fucking _fabulous_.

 

After the night they'd had on Saturday, the following day had been squandered entirely on sleeping and lazy shagging until they'd been forced to rouse themselves from bed to go over to Dom's for dinner. It was the first time Eleanor had been there and she'd behaved like a total _girl_ , gushing over Dom's stylishness and asking where he'd bought his light fittings, cutlery, hair straighteners... Matt had almost passed out from boredom as 'the women' exchanged decorating tips, and he'd been so grateful when Tom turned up to provide him with some entertainment, he'd just about cracked one of his ribs when he'd hugged him in greeting.

 

Dom _could_ cook, he'd give him that, and once Rigby got a few drinks down her, she soon stopped talking about duvet covers, so the meal had been a riot. They'd moved into the living room afterwards and got out Dom's laptop in order to get Chris on the webcam from Devon to discuss the setlist for the Albert Hall and sketch out solidish plans for finally touring South America. Eleanor had given Chris an enthusiastic hello before asking if Dom had any weed. He had, naturally. Once he'd handed it over, she'd left them to it, muttering about 'inconsiderate fuckers' trying to 'ruin all my fangirl fun'. She never wanted to know what they were going to play beforehand; dodging setlist talk, sound checks and rehearsals assiduously from the first day she'd joined the tour back in Australia.

 

Chris had disconnected to put the kids to bed and Tom was whining about the run around his recently-acquired Swiss girlfriend had been giving him when Eleanor had returned three-quarters of an hour later carrying a plate of 'special' chocolate brownies she'd just whipped up from ingredients in Dom's well-stocked pantry. Showering the unbothered woman with lavish praise, they'd consumed them with gusto, and soon all been very mellow and very, _very_ silly. Stoned Trivial Pursuit was attempted (after Matt and Tom had recovered from the torrent of scathing incredulity they'd poured on Dom for owning it to begin with), but the men had got in a brooding huff after Rigby had trounced them in round after round - even though she'd had more 'special' brownies than any of them - and ended up refusing to play. Gracious in victory, she'd flipped them each off individually and gone to find some crisps. Which she hadn't shared.

 

Flat on her back on the floor with her head in Matt's lap later on, Eleanor had kept them in fits of giggles with outrageous stories about the shenanigans Musers she knew of got up to both online and before, during and after gigs; also disclosing the things that got discussed on the less... _well-known_ messageboards she knew of that would be frowned upon on the official forums. She'd eventually commandeered Dom's laptop and _shown_ them how insanely devoted and hilariously pervy their fans really were, and Matt had been triumphant when she'd finally, _finally_ taken him to the dodgy fiction website she'd alluded to back in November. Dom had been so thrilled by the place he'd set up an account and bookmarked the page to peruse at his leisure in the future (“Look at that! Bloody _look_! I'm doing a _girl_! An actual _female_ with tits and everything. Makes a nice change from always having to give you one, Bells. And did you read how _big_ they made my cock?! I fucking _love_ this website! Here, Kirkleton, if you knew about this place and didn't tell me when you were so tickled to tell me about the _other_ one, you're fucking fired!”).

 

Not having made it back to Matt's until 5am, two very hung-over and crabby people had created a huge drama of getting to Heathrow in enough time later on the same morning to catch a flight to Reykjavik in Iceland. It had been Eleanor's 'early birthday present'. Once he'd gotten her to agree to come to England, Matt had demanded she name a city in Europe she'd never been to and always wanted to see and informed her he was taking her there - by force if necessary. But could she please _not_ be a stroppy wench for a change and let him do this for her?!

 

Eleanor _had_ protested, of course. Her birthday wasn't until August! After a brief telephonic tussle (he could tell she really, _really_ wanted to go, as she hadn't put in her usual effort), Matt had gotten her to agree by concocting a repayment plan that had less to do with hard cash and more to do with sexual favours and a continuous supply of banana-based baked goods (“Prostituting my body and my baking skills in return for a city break!” Rigby had joked. “My parents would be _so_ proud.”). Thus everybody had a clear(ish) conscience, bookings were duly made and they'd found themselves on a plane together for the first time ever, where Matt had tried his luck and asked Rigby if she'd like to join the Mile High Club.

 

“Fuck off, Bellamy. I'm still too hammered to do it standing up,” had been her response before her head had drooped on to his shoulder and she'd fallen asleep. Matt had sighed long-sufferingly, pulled her into his side with an arm draped around her shoulders and joined her, neither of them stirring until the plane landed at Leifur Eiriksson Keflavik International Airport several hours later.

 

Refreshed, they'd hit the ground running, cramming as much of Reykjavik as they possibly could into two days and two nights; hardly spending any time at all at the swanky hotel Matt had arranged (though he had still managed to use up quite a number of his sexual favours in such a short space of time). Eleanor's excitement at discovering an all-new - and decidedly _weird_ \- place had been infectious, and it had been like Matt had never been there before, either. He'd wondered aloud at one point why Muse hadn't played a concert there since the 'Absolution' tour. Rigby had joined in, remarking that she was surprised Dom wasn't there every other weekend, given how absurdly gorgeous all the woman were, and telling him, “Feel free to ogle, Bellamy. I won't get offended. Damn, I'd probably go gay if I lived here. They're that foxy.”

 

Flying back to London on Wednesday afternoon, Matt had missed his second opportunity to induct Eleanor into the Mile High Club by slipping into an exhausted snooze as soon as the plane had taken off. She'd been rather pissed with him when he'd woken up and the seatbelt sign was already on again. But he'd been _disgusted_. _Sleeping_ when he could've been having a fast, furious fuck - maybe with a hand clamped over the mouthy Kiwi's lips to muffle her moans - while suspended over thousands of feet of absolute nothingness?! You could _so_ tell he was going to be thirty this year!

 

Stopping on the way home from the airport to collect takeaways from Matt's favourite Italian restaurant, they'd arrived back at the flat to spend the evening in front of the flatscreen, watching DVDs and bantering until conversation had tailed off and it became obvious they'd be sleeping in the lounge if they didn't go to bed straight away. He'd prodded Rigby down the hallway as she'd muttered darkly about finding a bloke capable of carrying her, as his 'elf-sized self' was no help at all.

 

***

 

“ _Everybody knows I live for you, everybody knows I adore you, everybody knows that it's true, except you._ ”

 

Slender white arms materialised around Eleanor's waist; vein-shadowed hands resting against her stomach as she stood at the kitchen bench folding a cake batter. She pulled her earphones out as Matt lifted her fragrant hair and kissed the nape of her neck. “What's that you're listening to, Rigby love?” He murmured, twirling reddy brown strands around his fingers.

 

Head tilting back to bring her cheek next to Matt's, she resisted the temptation to purr like a petted kitten as she continued mixing. “Divine Comedy. Neil Hannon, you know?”

 

“Heard of, but that's it,” Matt replied, dipping a finger in the bowl in front of her and licking what it picked up off with a flash of moist tongue. “Mmmm... scrummy. For me?”

 

“For Dom. I promised, and if you have any more cake and you'll get porky. The fangirls prefer you underfed with a hungry glint in your eye. I should know. I'm one of them.”

 

“You're a hard woman, Miss Foxton.”

 

“Bah! I'm all squishy, see.” Eleanor put her hand over his and pushed it against the softness of her belly. He chuckled and perched his chin on her shoulder, watching in companionable silence as she methodically moved the spoon she was holding. Matt got a quiet enjoyment from observing her doing Rigby-type things. Baking. Reading. Cleaning in her pyjamas. Spazzing out while listening to Muse when she thought he wasn't looking. _Fucking hell, Bellamy. You know you're in deep when you're thinking sentimental tripe like this..._

 

“You good, Bells?” She enquired when the mixture was just right, pushing the bowl away and turning in Matt's arms.

 

Smiling easily, Matt answered, “Never better. Made some progress on that idea I had in Iceland. Could turn out to be something cool. Have _you_ done anything more constructive than catering to deadbeat drummers?”

 

“Well, I unpacked us both. Does that count? Actually, that reminds me. I was putting the shirt and pants you got to wear on Saturday away in the wardrobe when I noticed your lightsaber tucked away on a shelf in there. Seeing it got me to thinking about you vowing lightsaber-assisted revenge on Dom back in Melbourne. I never did hear what it was you did to him in retaliation for that phonecall.”

 

“Oh, that's a _top_ story!” He exclaimed, absent-mindedly fondling her arse. “Can't believe I never told you... _So_ , I had Tom Photoshop me up a fake magazine called _Badly Dressed Drummer Monthly_ with a picture of Dom in his offensive leopard print shirt on the cover and the headline: ‘Muse’s Dominic Howard: He’s Not Gay, But You Wouldn’t Know It From The Way He Dresses’.”

 

Rigby rolled her eyes and ruffled his toffee locks. Matt clearly believed he was a comic genius, if the expression on his face was anything to go by. He was so cute. And such a _geek_.

 

“The inside was actually a questionable porno mag Tom _claimed_ he’d pinched from one of the crew,” he ploughed on through a smirk. “Anyway, I _then_ paid off one of the local stagehands to sidle up to an unsuspecting Dom - while I hid behind a flight-case and watched with my fist stuffed in my mouth - and fanboy all over him; squee about how he was the best drummer ever and generally just lay it on thick until Dom had a metaphorical egotistical hard on. Finally, once Mr. Howard was positively _cooing_ at his own awesomeness, my representative whipped out the ‘special’ magazine and asked for an autograph...”


	7. Part Six

_April 2008 (London, UK)_

**_Blossom in the trees, you know how I feel..._ **

****

“Any sexual problems?”

 

Eleanor was feeling a little overwhelmed. She'd just met Matt's father. No warning at all, just Matt bounding through the door into one of the Royal Albert Hall's backstage rooms and grabbing her hand to pull her to her feet. “Rigby love, this is my dad! He wasn't sure if he was going to be able to come, but he could in the end - only he didn't tell me - so he just flew in from Spain, and here he is!” The excitable brunette had flourished a hand at a man in his mid-sixties standing sedately behind him. “Dad, this is Eleanor Foxton. Rigby, meet George Bellamy.” Reigning in her shock at this totally unexpected turn of events, she'd accepted George's welcoming hug and ended up having a very pleasant conversation with him. She'd seen the shadow of Matt in his face and mannerisms as he'd talked about playing the same venue in the early sixties and how he couldn't resist seeing his own son following in his footsteps more than 40 years later. Matt only saw his father a couple of times a year, so when he'd told her they were going to take a tour around the stately concert hall and asked if she wanted to join them, Eleanor had declined with a placating kiss to his cheek and sent them away to spend some quality time together.

 

Her own parents were only in their late forties, so George was actually much closer in age to her grandparents (Rigby's family had a history of starting early when it came to children, or not starting at all). But how on Earth had Matt and her gotten to the 'Meet the Parents'-stage without her noticing? And how could Matt be so comfortable with the idea that he'd forgotten to even mention it could be happening? Admittedly, he _had_ talked to her mother before, having answered the phone while Eleanor was in the shower back in Wellington in January (after Bethany Foxton had figured out who the strange Englishman who had picked up her daughters' phone was, they'd had quite the chat), but it was hardly a formal introduction. Honestly, the thought that their relationship might progress this far hadn't even occurred to her. But it _had_ ( _Oh my fucking God, Matt Bellamy's my **boyfriend**!_ ), and now she had that to ruminate upon, along with the many other things she'd been putting off thinking about, Matt-wise; so she wasn't in the best frame of mind for a patented 'Dominic James Howard Flirtation Sneak Attack' (or 'DJHFSA' for short).

 

Spinning around, she was confronted with his well-coiffed figure waiting two feet away, wearing a doctorly, solicitous air. If she didn't know any better, it would be a simple thing to believe that all Dom wanted in the wide world was to help. He really was a much better actor than Matt - even with Bellamy's oft-touted A* in GCSE Drama.

 

“Actually, Doctor Howard, I'm glad you asked.” Eleanor's smile was disconcerting, to say the least. “I'm really worried I might be a nymphomaniac. I just want it _all the time_. I can't get enough. It's the man I'm involved with, you see. He's just so fucking _talented_ with-”

 

“La la la la la!” Dom trilled, clapping his hands over his ears. “I'm not listening!”

 

“You started it,” Rigby accused loudly, face stern.

 

“On the understanding that you usually play along!” Crossing his arms over his chest, Dom's come-hither grey eyes swam with mock hurt. “I had a real good one, too. I was going to be the ethically-challenged physician to your sexually-frustrated patient and offer to write you a _pre-scrip-tion._ ” The tip of his tongue poked out to wet his bottom lip.

 

When Eleanor didn't bite, Dom's face fell into a spoilt moue. “Awww, Rigby, why won't you play?!” He was _this_ close from stamping his foot.

 

Damn. It was an actual struggle to get in a mood with Dom. “Enough already, you sleazy saddo. I'm preoccupied with... _things_ , so I'm sorry I'm not playing to my usual standards. How about: 'Oh, Doctor Dom, will you practice your malpractice on me? I'm suffering from a debilitating orgasm deficiency only you can cure'? Will that do for now?”

 

“If you'd said it like you meant it, that would have been deadly,” Dom huffed, sighing at his flirty loss. “It's okay, though. We can play later.” Eleanor snorted and her lips twitched at the corners. “Better.” He brushed her arm fleetingly, head tilted in concern. “Is this preoccupation bad?”

 

“Nah,” she dismissed, running a hand through her hair. “Just doing that thinking thing that Matt's always telling me off for.” Her dimple made a reassuring return as she prodded his stomach consideringly. “Eat your cake, did you?”

 

“I did. The whole thing. By myself.”

 

“Hmmm, did you now? Turn side on, then.” Amenable as ever, Dom did as instructed, and Rigby ran her eyes over him critically. “You might have filled out a tiny bit.” She patted his tummy this time and he snorted out a laugh. “Ooh, definitely. You're not as flat. But it could be temporary, like a food baby. Still, at least I got a couple of thousand extra calories in you. Mission accomplished.”

 

“Thank you for caring, my dear,” Dom said warmly. “It was yummy as, too. You may have to give me the recipe... so I can find an obliging female to make it for me again.”

 

“Dominic, you're more than capable of making your own cake, so do it yourself.”

 

Looking around Dom, Eleanor found a woman with glossy brown hair and an open, sweetly-proportioned face standing in the doorway, eyeing the dusky blonde with exasperated affection.

 

“Kelly Wolstenholme, don't be mean.” He faced her and threw his arms wide. “Hug, please!”

 

Grinning, Kelly gave Dom what he wanted (in the end, _everyone_ gave Dom what he wanted), pulling back to accept a friendly peck to her forehead. “Hello, fall-back husband. Lovely to see you again.”

 

“Hello, future wife. You shouldn't have come all this way just for me, not in your condition.”

 

“I didn't.” She nudged Dom out of the way and pointed at Eleanor. “I came all this way for her. Oh, and Chris.” Kelly held her hand out to Rigby, who took it with pleasure. “The erstwhile Miss Foxton! I've been dying to meet you.”

 

“You have?!” _Wow_ , Eleanor thought, _it's actually **Kelly** \- oft spoken of, but never seen. And look at her! Three kids and another on the way and she still has a better figure than me. Well done, Chris!_

 

Kelly, having left the kids with her parents and their nanny, had only travelled up from Devon that morning, but Chris had arrived on Thursday afternoon. Rigby had gone out to dinner with him, Matt, Dom and Tom on Thursday night, but she'd spent Friday catching up with some old mates from when she used to live in London - having told them she was here to see Muse, but nothing more - while the men went to their rehearsal rooms and practiced/pissed about. Matt had come back to the flat that evening enthused and extra fidgety, hustling her on to a stool in the kitchen and babbling happily at her as he prepared pasta for dinner. In amongst the chaos of words, he'd managed to tell her Kelly was pregnant, joking that Chris was so dangerously virile, he only had to _look_ at Kelly in a certain way to get her knocked up. 'Disbelievingly pleased' about summed up Matt's thoughts on the subject (she'd caught him mouthing, “ _Four_?!” with a perplexed frown more than once).

 

“Curiosity is a terrible thing, Eleanor,” Kelly stated before addressing Dom. “Now, Dominic, Morgan was asking where you'd gone. Go find him so we can talk.”

 

“Huh. Will _you_ make me cake if I agree?” Dom asked cheekily, even as he began walking backwards out of the room.

 

“We both know the answer to that.”

 

“Sadly, we do.” He tipped an imaginary hat to them. “See you ladies later.”

 

They were both laughing as he disappeared. Kelly settled herself on a chair and Rigby on the couch and they proceeded to get acquainted, Kelly full of questions and very easy to talk to. She wanted to know how Eleanor's relationship with Matt had developed from her point of view, claiming she didn't trust a word _he -_ or any of them but Chris - said; if she was really as big a Muse fan as she'd been led to believe ('The Groove' tattoo on Rigby's hip had answered that one succinctly); what it was like for her to have crossed from in front of the stage to behind it; about her life back in New Zealand; _everything_ , really. Eleanor was delighted to share, and had many questions of her own. After all, Kelly had been there since day one - an unparallelled resource of Musey insight, and with a less patchy memory than the band themselves.

 

When she'd gained enough background dirt to have the forums humming if shared, they moved on, discussing the new baby and the children, what had been happening down in Teignmouth and how Chris was a horror to deal with if he went too long without seeing Matt, Dom and Tom, as he'd stockpile a great load of adult-themed silliness and prattish behaviour that had no outlet.

 

“You should know how much all Musers adore Chris,” Rigby confided. “He's just the best. We never stop bitching about what the other two have done wrong _now_ , but no one ever has a bad word to say about Chris. And now that I know him myself, I find our opinion entirely justified. A true gentleman.”

 

“He is rather wonderful, isn't he?” Kelly beamed. “I think I'll keep him a while longer.”

 

“Dom'll be gutted.”

 

“For about thirty seconds, yes. Thankfully short attention span.”

 

The two women shared a giggle over the incomparable drummer, Kelly the first to sober. She studied Eleanor's face with preternaturally wise eyes for a long moment before bluntly enquiring, “So, are you in love with Matt?”

 

She gasped at the directness of it, flummoxed. Eleanor had never been asked that question - not even by Penny - and she'd made an art of avoiding asking it of herself, too afraid of the true answer. So to have it put out there just like that floored her. “I...”

 

Rigby was still searching for a response when the cause of her emotional confusion trotted into the room. Matt smirked boyishly and waved at them both - his irises were a particularly vivid blue today and consequently even more mesmerising - but Kelly kept staring at her, waiting for an answer.

 

As she stood up to greet Matt, Eleanor paused briefly to bend her head close to Kelly's, whispering, “By Christ, who _isn't_?”

 

***

 

“Howard, you handsome bastard. Why must you insist on torturing us poor female Musers by tainting your hotness with that crime of a shirt?!”

 

“What?” Dom cast his eyes over his current attire - the leopard print polo shirt that caused him no end of grief from the others but he stubbornly continued to wear. “This is a _wicked_ shirt. _And_ it's tight. I don't see the problem.”

 

“'Handsome bastard'?! 'Hotness'?!” Matt hissed at Eleanor, who shrugged unrepentantly. He shook a finger at her warningly and then turned to Dom, who was now straightening his collar as he admired himself in the mirror. “There are so many problems with that shirt, I don't even know where to start. Listen to the woman, Dommers. Ditch the minging thing for the peace of mind of the female fan-base.”

 

“Ooh, thanks for the support, Bellamy.” Rigby smiled winsomely at Matt and stroked a hand over the Periodic Table printed across the red cotton covering his chest. “Your shirt is awesome, by the way.” She shot him a naughty look from under her lashes and breathed, “Science nerds make me horny.”

 

Dom spoke up and interrupted before Matt could take advantage of this tease. “The two of you can bugger right off. If _I_ like the shirt, that should be reason enough for everyone. And I do. So you can bite my peachy arse.” He nabbed one of the cupcakes Eleanor had made that morning to keep the band and crew's sugar levels up and stalked away. His mother and sister were due to arrive any minute now, and _they_ never gave him lip over his clothes.

 

“Always been very touchy about his pet leopard.” Discarding the paper case from his own cupcake, Matt graced Eleanor with an icing-sweet kiss. “Feels like we've only spent five minutes together today.”

 

Sort of true. They'd slept late, and while Matt had left for the Albert Hall straight after lunch, Rigby had deliberately delayed coming until after he'd called to tell her sound check was over (having successfully dodged all references to what was going to be played up until today, there was no way she was going to let herself accidentally discover something she didn't want to to know at this late stage. The setlist _would_ remain a sodding mystery until the show!). Matt had been darting back and forth for interviews etc since she'd got there, as well as visiting with his dad (George was now following Paul English around as he directed the stage set-up, interfering in a Mattish manner), so it did seem like they'd barely seen each other to Eleanor as well.

 

“I'm _this_ close to mastering time travel, so soon we'll never have to worry about that sort of thing again,” she reassured.

 

“Teleportation would be more useful in our situation, don't you think?”

 

Matt appeared quite wistful, and Rigby was struck once again by that sense of privilege she sometimes got when she was with him. He was a _beautiful_ \- and beautifully flawed - person, and she didn't deserve him (then again, no one did), but she was deeply grateful that she had him for now.

 

“One scientific breakthrough at a time, Matthew,” Eleanor eventually answered, patting the back of a pale hand. “Remember I make curtains for a living, so it's only a sideline.”

 

“Amateur scientists make _me_ horny,” he joked, and they descended into a bout of mutual giggles - their  customary state.

 

“Going down to the pit soon, aren't you?” Matt queried when the hilarity had subsided (they'd already had their usual tussle over where she'd be watching from - he'd lost). “That's hours more where I am unable to feel you up.” Curving a hand around her waist, Matt fondled the blood-warm flesh of her hip under her jeans before he was deprived of the opportunity to do so again.

 

Eleanor mewled contentedly and rested her head on his shoulder. “But you'll have your guitars to rape and your piano to caress soon. What d'you need me for?”

 

“Rigby love, I _need_ you like you would not believe.”

 

***

 

“Hello, I'm Mara. Aren't you just so excited you could die?!”

 

Mara Nesmith introduced herself to the woman she'd ended up standing beside after the scarcely restrained stampede to get to the barrier. She seemed kind of familiar, but not from the queue. Maybe she'd seen her at another gig? The mate Mara had come with had ended up about six people along from her, so it would be cool to have someone else to talk to, anyway.

 

“Yes. Yes, I am,” Eleanor grinned at the blonde girl to her right. “Oh, and I'm Rigby. Nice to meet you.” _Why did I tell her my name's Rigby?!_ Hearing her real name so infrequently while around Matt, she'd called herself the nickname without thinking. _Oh, well. Can't do any harm._

 

Okay, the name niggled at her as well, but not in connection to the face. Mara tried to put this information to the back of her mind for later, but couldn't help asking, “Have we met before?”

 

Giving the younger woman a closer look, Eleanor shook her head. “Sorry, I don't recognise you. But have you ever been to a Muse concert in New Zealand, Australia or the US? This is my first in England.”

 

“Thought you weren't a local. You're from...”

 

“New Zealand.”

 

“Wow. Hardcore,” Mara said deferentially. “Oh, the answer is no, by the way. I've never seen Muse outside the UK.”

 

“Then we definitely can't have met. I must look like another Muser or something.”

 

“Hmmm, maybe.” She couldn't let it go, though. Mara knew _this_ woman in some Muse-related way. Her hair was quite distinctive, but it was the single dimple in her left cheek when she smiled. Surely that was too unique a feature to have seen in someone else as well? Not when combined with the hair. And the name 'Rigby'. Why did that set off a beeping noise in the part of her brain designated for Muse, too? _Crap, this is going to be bugging me all night now!_

 

Rigby and Mara nattered to each other on and off throughout their jittery wait for the main event. All Muse, of course. When Mara had boasted that she'd met Matt, Eleanor had struggled not to do the same, but been rescued by the Futureheads taking the stage and curtailing conversation for most of an hour. It had really been tough for her not to skite like a right bitch all over the messageboards - not necessarily about her involvement with Matt, but just at the utter elation of _knowing_ Muse - especially when she had all those killer photos from Melbourne that would have incited mass envy if posted. But she'd only been able to share this unbelievable... _thing_ with people who couldn't understand just how massive it was, because they weren't Musers. And, petty as it may be, the compulsion to shout, 'I'm friends with Muse and I'm doing Matt Bellamy. Yes, ladies, we were right. He _is_ an outstanding fuck!' at the top her lungs right now was a strong one.

 

Time did that trick it always employed when you were waiting for Muse; where it stretched interminably and you were ready to start _crying_ , for fuck's sake, the anticipation was almost unbearable, and would they ever just fucking START already?! You got really narked, too - even though you were so happy and had spent vast quantities of hard cash in order to be exactly where you were - at being squished and jostled, at all the sounds coming at you that weren't Muse; got paranoid you'd need to go to the toilet and fretted about how sore your feet were already and if it would spoil things, 'cause you'd be thinking about your stupid achy feet and not the show. And you were an impatient person; you had trouble waiting ten minutes at the fish and chip shop, for crying out loud, let alone the _hours_ you were putting up with here! Really, it was a freakin' nightmare, so why did you insist on doing this to yourself time and time again?!

 

But then Muse were there, and you instantly forgot all those things that had so enraged you only thirty seconds earlier, because you _knew_. It was obvious why you repeated the same scenario, why you never learnt and kept coming back for more. It was because they took you to a higher level. Muse were _music_ , and music like this made life worth living.

 

***

 

To say that Muse were 'on form' would be grossly inadequate. They were flat-out _phenomenal_. It _was_ a religious experience. And they just looked so full of glee to be there. Eleanor's screams were interspersed with girly sighs; she was so very fond of them all, and so blessed to be here to witness this.

 

Mara had squeed deafeningly right into her ear and clutched her arm when she'd noticed Matt's socks matched Dom's trousers, but they were both very much in their own worlds as they watched. Where Rigby - naturally - kept her eyes pretty much exclusively on Matt, Mara, she'd told her, was a Dom girl, and spent most of her time gazing at him. But Eleanor was in awe of Matt, and couldn't look away to take in the others for more than seconds. He was a god. When he was up there, Matt was a god. There was no other way to describe it. So she worshipped him, as was his due.

 

Matt treating that Manson like it was an extension of his own body during 'Fury' had blown her mind and ruined her knickers. Fuck. Just... _fuck_. His lithe frame in that sleek, monochrome outfit and his sharply structured face, how he moved as if under the power of some force outside of his control, the way he _owned_ both the guitar and the piano and, most of all, the scorching passion of his voice, were all doing unspeakable things to her, and making her want to do unspeakable things to him. That she was the only woman here with _permission_ to do so was, like, the most gloriously smug feeling _ever_.

 

Her hands smarting from clapping too fervently during 'Starlight', Rigby was examining her reddened palms doubtfully when an airy, dream-like arpeggio broke over the heads of the audience. Beside her, Mara screeched dementedly. It was 'Bliss'! 'Bliss' was one of Eleanor's top five Muse songs, and she could never hear it often enough live. She sent Matt a twinkling grin to show her appreciation, and he caught it, shooting her a blue wink in return.

 

_Got to keep my personal fangirl smiling_ , Matt chuckled to himself as he skillfully manipulated the Silver Bomber. Plus they loved to play 'Bliss'. Judging by the roar of the crowd, the fans loved to hear it, too. And he was blissful himself. The gig was a triumph, he could feel it, knew Dom and Chris could, too, and performing with Rigby a few metres away just made it even better. She stirred so many _marvellous_ emotions in him, and the squirming discomfort in his gut that afflicted him whenever he let himself think about her leaving seemed to mean that Matt could no longer tolerate not having her there to make him feel like he did when they were together all the time.

 

Not really realising what he was doing and what it might mean, Matt maintained steady eye contact with Eleanor as he sang, and when he came to the line, ' _Everything about you is so easy to love_ '... well, he was singing it for her and her alone.

 

***

 

Without her asking it to, part of Mara Nesmith's brain had been shuffling and reorganising information, analysing new data as it came in during the concert from her observations of actions that her subconscious registered but she didn't. And her brain was close, so close, to figuring this thing out. It just required a small push for the final connection to be made. That small push was about to be administered.

 

As 'Stockholm Syndrome' came to its blistering conclusion, Mara woke from the trance she'd been in while watching Dom thrash the shit out of his drums with the most _pornogenic_ expression on his face and happened to glance at Matt. And Matt, well, he seemed to be looking directly back at her. Only he wasn't. He was looking at Rigby, and, quite frankly, the look he was giving her was the sort of look you gave someone when you knew what they looked like naked and were planning on seeing them naked again in the very near future. Mara jerked her head around to the figure beside her. She didn't seem shocked. Not at all. In fact, she was looking at him in the exactly the same way. There was a... _familiarity_ between them. Matt wasn't just randomly perving on one of the many riled-up females currently at his command.

 

It hit Mara like a backhanded slap to the face. _Of course_ she knew that hair and that dimple - because she'd seen them only last Wednesday, when the woman that sported them had been having the life snogged out of her by Matt fuckin' Bellamy in the middle of Heathrow's Terminal 3!

 

Man, this was big. Huge. Mara was standing next to Matt's girlfriend - the one nobody knew about. And she must be his _serious_ girlfriend, because now she remembered where she'd heard the name 'Rigby' before, and it was Muse-related, alright. This was who Matt had dedicated the unprecedented outing of 'The Groove' to in Australia last year. That little tidbit had been flitting about unexplained on .mu and Muse Live for months. And, _and_ Rigby had mentioned earlier that she was from a place called Wellington in New Zealand, where someone on ML had claimed to have spotted Matt in December. And, and, _and_ , now that she thought about it, that wasn't the first time Matt had looked at Rigby. He'd been doing it all night. It was indisputable. They were hooked up.

 

But what was Matt's girlfriend doing watching from the moshpit when she could be in a private box or seated close to the stage? Rigby knew 'The Groove'. 'The Groove' was a b-side. Only real fans loved b-sides enough to ask to have them played. And only a _Muser_ would choose to watch from _down here_ when they had the option to watch from wherever they liked. _Oh my fucking God, Matt's girlfriend is a Muse fangirl!_

 

“Is something the matter?”

 

Eleanor had noticed Mara staring at her with her mouth hanging open now that Matt was no longer there to steal all her attention - Muse having departed for the break before the encore - and felt mildly uneasy as a result. The Royal Albert Hall was a tumult of sound as the entranced masses hollered for more, but Mara was silent, her eyes fixed.

 

Mara blinked as the loud enquiry broke through her absorption. _Was_ something the matter? Should she confront Rigby, ask her to explain? The answer came to her immediately. No. She shouldn't. This was between her and Matt. They'd clearly made an effort to keep the relationship under wraps, and it was personal and nothing to do with Mara. Matt was one of her idols; she respected him immensely, and he'd been so kind when she'd met him. He deserved his privacy. It wasn't her business. Yes, she'd have to tell her best friend - there was _no_ way she could keep this completely to herself, it just wasn't healthy - but she'd swear her to secrecy and that would be it. No one else would find out from her. That didn't mean she wasn't so jealous she could spit, though. Rigby had probably hugged Dom, too!

 

“No, nothing's the matter,” Mara responded brightly, and Eleanor relaxed. “Wasn't that incredible?! Might have been better than Wembley! And they played 'Bliss'! Oh, I almost fainted, I was so excited. It'll be 'Plug In Baby' and 'Knights' for the encore, but d'you think Matt's really going to play the organ for 'Megalomania' like everyone's been saying?!”

 

***

 

Eleanor showed a security guard her backstage pass as soon as she could without anybody catching on. Mara had said her farewells and pranced away to find her mate as soon as she could move freely, so she didn't have to worry about her hanging about and seeing as she jumped the barrier. Nodding distractedly to the various crew members that greeted her, she made her way back rather haphazardly, half-delirious with the thrill of what Matt _seemed_ to have implied during 'Bliss'. Regardless of this, the gig had been absolutely extraordinary and would have been more than enough to have her in a Musey daze for days, possibly _weeks_ , all by itself.

 

Making it to the main dressing room more by following the many raucous voices all talking at once emanating from it than actually recalling the way, Rigby ducked her head around the door and ignored everyone in favour of finding Matt. Spying him by himself in a corner, just putting the towel he'd been drying his sweat-soaked hair with down on the dressing table in front of him, she went straight to him, but he didn't see her approach.

 

“Get your coat. You've pulled.”

 

Matt looked up with glowing eyes and faintly pink cheeks, quirking a detached eyebrow. “Oh, really? Pulled what?”

 

“A muscle in your groin once I've finished with you.”

 

An ever-so-slightly unhinged squawk of laughter ricocheted around the room as Matt pounced on Eleanor, holding her tight and nuzzling his face against her neck. The giggling fangirl splayed her hands possessively over his nape and upper back and reciprocated. _If this man is in love with **me** , I am the luckiest woman in the history of civilisation. _

 

“So...” Kelly Wolstenholme spoke up from the midst of a huddle of men in varying degrees of dishevelment at the other end of the dressing room. “We in agreement that Matt's totally in love with that woman right there?”

 

“Yes,” Dom (very dishevelled), Chris (quite dishevelled) and Tom (not dishevelled at all, the lazy twat) chorused in unison, nodding.

 

“Excellent.” The soon-to-be mother of four took a sip of her water, other hand casually clasping that of her husband. “Next: does Matt _know_ he's in love?” Three pairs of eyes swivelled to Dom for a response.

 

“Oh, he knows. But I'm betting he's only recently figured it out.”

 

“Hmmm... so Eleanor probably won't have been made explicitly aware of this yet?”

 

Dom shook his head, mouth otherwise engaged with a frosty bottle of beer.

 

Kelly tutted. “Why would he keep it to himself?”

 

“He's wary, isn't he?” Morgan (moderately dishevelled) suppositioned, joining them from the drinks table. “Doesn't want to put himself out there without knowing what he's going to get back. After all, is _she_ in love with _him_?”

 

“Men. So adorably clueless.” Chris grunted in affront and Kelly winked up at him. “Even if she hadn't  practically told me, I'd wager my imminent bump on it.”

 

“Okay, but does she love 'Matt Bellamy',” Tom made quotation marks in the air with his fingers as he said the name, “or does she love,” he flailed his hands about and moved his head like a meetkat on guard duty, _“Matt_?”

 

“She loves _Matt_ Matt,” Chris announced in a 'case closed' tone, surprising Morgan and Tom. Dom, however, just bobbed his head in agreement, and Kelly gave him an approving nod as she squeezed Chris' hand.

 

“Elaborate,” Tom ordered.

 

“It's obvious, isn't it?” Rolling his eyes impatiently, Chris put his drink down. “Eleanor was the one who walked away, right? More than once. And she's never asked for anything from him and, by all accounts, is always surprised when he gives her something anyway. If she was in love with the rock star, and not the person, she would have behaved in a totally different way.” He flicked a contemptuous hand at Muse's fourth and fifth member. “Jesus, you two. Get a clue already. You're making the whole sex look like dumb arses.”

 

Tom made a noise of indignant protest, and it was loud enough to burst Matt and Rigby's little bubble. They both looked across at the same time to find themselves being studied keenly by more than one close friend.

 

“What's up with you lot?” Matt demanded, bemused.

 

“ _Nothing_ ,” five voices chirped simultaneously.

 

“It's alright, Bellamy,” Eleanor sniggered, though she had her suspicions. “They're probably all just taking the piss out of your socks.” Matt gave her an arctic glare and she hastily added, “Which is really not on at all, as your socks are the epitome of understated style, since I bought them for you. They should be ashamed of themselves. Bloody immature at their age.”

 

Matt's attention effectively diverted by cackling at Rigby, the others quickly shuffled away before he could remember they'd been there. Kelly threw a loaded glance over her shoulder at Dom as they began to mingle amongst the family and friends in the room, remarking, “Eleanor's tattoo is pretty cool, but I don't suppose any of you but Matt has seen it...”

 

“Mmmm,” Matt murmured when he'd calmed, fingers lost in Rigby's ravaged hair. “You're hot - literally, thanks to the moshpit - fancy a shag?”

 

“Fuck yes - me and a couple of thousand others.” She stroked his face from temple to chin then kissed his tempting pout, sinking her teeth into his full bottom lip. “You were _good_ , Bells. In fact, would it be awfully cheesy of me to say that you rocked my world?”

 

“It would, but I know how much you like cheese, so I shall allow it,” he granted, captivated by the sweep of Eleanor's eyelashes as she blinked. “It was fucking epic, wasn't it? Think we pulled it off. The vibe I was getting from the audience was intense. You felt it, right? That something special?”

 

“Oh, yeah. I felt it, alright.” _Fucking hell, I felt too much_. _I **feel** too much for you. _ “But do you know how many Muse concerts I've been to?”

 

“You know, I don't, actually. You've never told me,” Matt replied, accustomed to going off on a tangent.

 

“That was my eighteenth,” Rigby informed him, and his eyes went wide with shock. “Don't look so taken aback! You must've figured it'd be a lot. I mean, come on, I did seven in November alone! Anyway, my point is that, of the eighteen Muse gigs I've been to, that was the greatest. You were out-of-sight astonishing, Bellamy; so I don't just fancy a shag, I fancy giving you anything you ask for.”

 

Cheeks plumped and eyes sparkled as Matt bestowed a large, crooked grin on Eleanor; his wonky teeth only adding to its charm. “There you go with the talking again. You know how me and my ego love to hear you talk, my silver-tongued witch. Especially when you say things like _that_.”

 

“Talk?!” Eleanor scoffed. “You can hear me _scream_ if you want.” Matt's gaze darkened, suddenly predatory, but he didn't have a chance to respond before she continued. “But not for a while yet. After party first. It's my last chance to hang out with everyone... say my goodbyes.”

 

He flinched minutely at the reminder she would be gone in less than 24 hours, but masked it by disengaging from their embrace and grasping her hand instead. “You get what you want, Rigby love. I'm disinclined to say 'no' to you tonight.” Matt towed Eleanor with him as he moved towards the gradually filling room's other occupants. “'Cause you apparently won't be saying 'no' to me later!”

 

***

 

“So, about you giving me anything I ask for...”

 

Sprawled facedown on the bed, mental capacity that of a freshly-lobotomised psychiatric patient, Eleanor groaned into the duvet to acknowledge she was listening, twitching one hand to urge Matt to continue.

 

Smirking lasciviously, Matt lent to the side to extract a couple of pertinent items from the drawer in his bedside table and then moved to kneel between Rigby's bare legs. Bending his head, he breathed slow and warm on the small of her back for a few seconds before cupping his hands over her biteably round backside and licking from the base of her spine up to where her hair shrouded the nape of her neck. Shifting one arm for support, he rested his lips against the chestnut strands sheltering her left ear and rasped, “Your juicy arse, Eleanor. I want inside it.” One finger was run down the cleft of her buttocks for emphasis.

 

Hips wriggled and an unintelligible noise, muffled by the fabric under her mouth, escaped before Rigby slowly turned her head on the covers. Matt gazed into one pretty hazel eye from mere inches away, dropping a kiss on the arch of one dark brow, and waited for her to speak.

 

“Bellamy,” Eleanor said carefully, as if the English language was more taxing than usual. “You just tongue and finger fucked me until I was _begging_ you to let me come, because I just _couldn't_ take any more, and then, when you did let me, I screamed so loudly that - combined with what I put it through at the gig - I may have done irreparable damage to my throat.” Pausing, she inhaled roughly. “So, when you hold your naked body over me, and I can feel your dearly beloved - and rock hard - cock rubbing against my skin, and tell me you want to plunge said cock up my arse, I say: 'Why the fuck did you never ask before? Get the hell on with it.'”

 

Stunned - but thankfully not into immobility - Matt sat up and shoved his hands between Rigby's abdomen and the bed, pulling her up and into a kneeling position in front of him. She swayed slightly but remained upright when he let go to deal with the condom and complained, “You mean I could have had this months ago?! Why didn't you tell me, you wench?!”

 

“You never asked, and I wasn't going to offer,” Eleanor replied over her shoulder, sticking her tongue out at him tauntingly.

 

“Oh, you are so going to get it now, you evil, evil... oh, _bollocks._ ” Matt had gotten a tad carried away applying the lube. Fuck, he so needed to get off. Her taste was still in his mouth; all he could smell was Rigby and sex, all he could _see_ was Rigby and sex. Reluctantly prying his slick hands away from himself, he latched them around her waist instead, sitting back on his bent legs against the pillows and manouevering a passive Eleanor so her legs were to either side of his and she was perching on his thighs.

 

Rigby was on another plane of reality altogether, and the only other person that existed there with her was Matt. And after what he'd just done to her, she was _so_ relaxed, she didn't think this was going to be a problem. No, this wasn't going to be a problem _at all_. Lifting up a bit, she reached behind herself and circled a hand around Matt's erection, lining him up so he was poised at her entrance and then letting go for him to take over.

 

There were no words as Matt breached her, hands gentle on her hips as he pulled her down. Only choked moans and gasps and sighs. His mind was blank from the pressure, and hers from the penetration. It did hurt - Matt _was_ trying to get a Range Rover in a space designed for a Mini - but it was the type of pain you relished.

 

Two minutes of drawn-out impalement later, and Eleanor had accepted as much as she was able. Her hands fluttered as she took slow, deep breaths, and Matt tried to hold himself still inside her as he gripped her tighter, sliding one hand up her moist torso to palm a breast. She clenched reflexively at the touch to her engorged nipple, and he whined low in his throat.

 

“Ahhh... Rigby love,” Matt stuttered, laying his cheek against her back. “Can I move? You feel so fucking good, I have to move.”

 

“Of course you can, Matt. You were _invited_ , after all.”

 

Eleanor giggled lightly, and he didn't understand why. But he didn't care, because he was moving now and it was the most... _extreme_ feeling ever. Matt could tell this was going to be short-lived and emotionally brutal. It just wasn't possible to sustain a sensation like this for very long without losing it completely.

 

As he thrust his cock into her tight arse, each push inside this bewitching woman who had invaded his life so all-consumingly was another blow to the flimsily-constructed wall he'd built in his mind to hold back his feelings. Matt knelt up and took Eleanor with him, twisting a hand in her hair to pull her head around so they could share a furious kiss, and she contorted an arm back over both their shoulders to hold the back of his neck, other hand buried between her legs.

 

He had no idea what sort of sounds they were making. His ears were full of static. The new angle and the fact he could feel Rigby's fingers working through her thin internal walls meant his orgasm was upon him, and it was unstoppable. And when it hit, it took the crumbling remains of his emotional barricade with it, and it all just came tumbling out.

 

“Rigby... Eleanor... Don't go,” Matt panted, restraint finally obliterated by the demands of his cock. “Stay with me. I... I love you. I'm fucking in love with you. I. Love. You. So you can't leave. Ever. You have to stay. But I know you can't... unless you marry me. Marry me and you - oh, fuck me, this feels fucking _insane_ \- you can stay. With me. All the time. I want you with me all the time. So you _must_ marry me. I'm serious. Be my wife...”

 

***

 

It was quite a while before Matt had sufficient mastery of his body to open his eyes and rearrange his cramping legs, and when he did, he noticed something was missing. A source of warmth and comfort that was always there lately when he found himself like this. He looked around in confusion until his dizzied eyes landed on Eleanor. She was sitting in perfect nude stillness on the red and white armchair in the corner, staring right back at him. And she seemed kind of _freaked_.

 

“What are you doing over there?” Matt was genuinely baffled.

 

“Did you just ask me to marry you?”


	8. Part Seven

_January 2008 (Wellington, NZ)_

**_Yeah freedom is mine_ **

**_And you know how I feel..._ **

****

It was a blistering New Zealand summer's day, the kind that burned you walking to the mailbox, and fair-of-complexion Matt had decided it would be a really top notch idea for he and an almost-as-pale - and prone to sunburn that peeled ickily yet _never_ turned into a tan - Eleanor to spend hours wandering around Wellington Zoo during the hottest part of the day. There was a breeze blowing (it wasn't called Windy Wellington for nothing), but the sunlight was dazzling and harsh, and Rigby - who had never liked hot weather and would rather visit Antarctica than take a tropical beach holiday - could feel the back of her neck reddening warningly under the three layers of high-factor sunscreen Matt had so conscientiously applied (to her _entire_ body) that morning. Plus she only tolerated sex/Muse moshpit/dancing-in-clammy-indie-club-related sweating without getting bitchy, so the longer they stayed out in the sun, the grouchier she got. The swarming multitude of appallingly-behaved children also having a day out at the zoo weren't helping her temper, either. Matt, on the other hand, was in a revoltingly-cheery mood, and kept pouting at her for not being the same. She didn't mind, though. He looked so fucking _good_ when he pouted.

 

“Look, Rigby! Meerkats!” Her hand was seized and she was pulled through the milling family groups to a new enclosure, where dozens of furry little Matts-in-animal-form whizzed about with a purpose known only to themselves. “I've always identified with meerkats. I don't know why.”

 

“You don't know why?” Eleanor gazed at Matt, gazed at the nearest meerkat - which stared back with large, inquisitive eyes in a pointed face - gazed at Matt again. “You _really_ don't know why you identify with meerkats?”

 

“No,” he replied absently. Propping himself against the fence, he turned an enchanted smile on her. “But aren't they cool? I like how they just... do their thing, you know?”

 

“They're very cool, Bells, I agree.” Rigby just grinned at him, she couldn't help it.

 

“That's an abrupt change of mood, Foxton. You were well shitty a minute ago, and now you're all dimple.” Matt leaned towards her and bussed his nose against her flushed cheek.

 

Giggling, Eleanor shied away, but lifted his arm and gave the inside of his wrist a wet lick. Matt squirmed, fingers fluttering. “I'm a female. Abrupt, unfathomable changes of mood are _our_ thing.” Taking advantage of the slack appendage in her grasp, she slapped Matt lightly across the face with his own hand.

 

“Oi!”

 

Cackling, she jumped away from him. “I want an ice cream, Bellamy. D'you want one? There's a cart over there.”

 

“Go on, then,” Matt answered, eyeing his liberated hand suspiciously. “Something ba-”

 

“Banana flavoured. Yes, I am well aware of your tastes by now,” Rigby interrupted, taking out her wallet and fishing inside. “Meh. No cash. Got any change, rich tosser?”

 

“She beats me, she insults me, she offers to buy me ice cream and then makes me pay for it. Plus she's clearly mental... I chose to come here for her again _why_?” He tossed his wallet at her and turned back to the meerkats, shaking his head despairingly at himself.

 

“It's 'cause you're mental, too!”

 

Joining the queue at the ice cream cart, Eleanor was still grinning as she dug through Matt's wallet, separating the NZ coins from the UK ones. Once she had enough for a banana Paddle Pop and a white chocolate Magnum, she browsed further. It was a typical male wallet, stuffed with useless receipts and scraps of paper. There weren't any photos, but the picture on Matt's driver's licence made up for that. “Loser,” she breathed fondly. A larger piece of paper sticking out behind the licence was too tempting to leave alone, so she slid it out and unfolded it.

 

A gasp of surprise caught in her throat. It was the note she'd left for him the first time they'd slept together, when she'd bottled it and scarpered before he woke up. Matt had kept it. _Wow. That is so-_

 

There was a tap on her shoulder. “'Scuse me.”

 

Rigby pivoted on the spot; the note clutched in one hand, Matt's wallet in the other. A woman maybe five years her junior, with eye-wateringly red hair, punkish clothes and an eyebrow ring, was looking up at her expectantly.

 

“Don't mean to be a bother,” the rock chick said enthusiastically, “but I saw you with that... that gorgeous, _gorgeous_ man, and I had to say, 'Congratulations!' Girl, I would gnaw off my own leg if it meant I got the chance to tap that! I'm with my mate Felix, who's as gay as the day is long, and he agrees. Your bloke is _choice_. I was feeling a little hot under the collar after staring at him for too long, so I came over here to get something to cool down. Felix... well, he's kind of transfixed, so I left him to it.”

 

 _Well, this is random._ Eleanor _so_ understood where she was coming from, though, and was in no position to start getting uppity over people perving on Matt. “Yeah, he's fit. In more ways than one, _if_ you know what I mean. I kind of scored. I don't know how.” She narrowed her eyes in mock threat. “But I'll kick your arse if you _do_ try and tap that!”

 

The younger woman laughed, holding her hands up in preemptive surrender. “He's in no danger from me. But if you leave a man who looks like _that_ unattended for long enough, _you'll_ be in danger... of having your heart broken.”

 

_April 2008 (London, UK)_

“Did I what?”

 

“Did you just ask me to marry you?” Rigby repeated, voice strained.

 

Matt froze. _Fucking hell, I did, didn't I?!_ His exact wording escaped him, but he remembered his intention, the motivation behind it, and knew he didn't want to try and deny it. “I did,” he confirmed succinctly.

 

“Did... did you mean it?”

 

“Yup.” He watched as Eleanor's eyes flared impossibly wide, and rushed to explain. “I'll admit I hadn't planned on doing it, but I'm glad I did, and I _won't_ take it back. I love you and I want to marry you. Do you believe me?”

 

“I...” She swallowed, pushing her hair back from her face with shaking hands. “I believe you love me. You've made me feel like you do since I got here, now I look back, and during 'Bliss' earlier... I do believe that, but I can't take the idea of you wanting to marry me seriously.”

 

“It's the method of proposal, right? It was unfortunately timed, and _deeply_ unclassy, but it _was_ heartfelt. Besides, don't they say a man's at his most honest during orgasm, because he hasn't the brain power needed to deceive left over?”

 

“Fucked if I know,” Rigby replied. _I can't **deal** with this! Why is he messing with me? _ “So you're in love with me and you think we should get married?” Matt nodded. “And you think I should _seriously_ consider a proposal of marriage made during a backdoor bonkfest?” Holding back a smirk, Matt nodded again.

 

Rubbing her eyes, Eleanor sighed. It sounded almost anguished to Matt's ears, and he sobered instantly. _Oh, God. What if she doesn't love me and doesn't know how to tell me?! Fuck, that would suck like nothing has ever sucked before. I'm sure she does, though. She **must**... _ “Will you come back to bed please, Eleanor?” He requested quietly. “We need to talk about this properly, and I don't want to do it with you all the way over there.”

 

She made to stand up, hesitated, remained seated. “Tell me something first. Do you want to marry me because you want to spend _the_ _rest of your life_ with me, or because it's the only way I can stay in England, bake you cake and be there to make the beast with two backs with you whenever you feel like? Because there's a _gigantic_ difference between the two, even if you do love-”

 

“While _everything_ about the second option appeals to me,” Matt interjected, “that's not why. I don't want you to go back to New Zealand and stay there, true, but I want to get _married_ because being insulted and teased by you on a daily basis sounds like a fucking _splendid_ way to spend 'the rest of my life'.”

 

This man had so many different ways to make her heart beat faster and her knees go weak, and most of the time he didn't even realise what he was doing. _I wish I could believe he really did want what he was asking for, but **know** he definitely won't when I tell him this..._

 

“ _The good news is she can't have babies,_ ” Rigby reluctantly recited.

 

“Why are you muttering 'Megalomania' lyrics? And will you _please_ come here?!” For some reason, he thought it was vital that she come to him, and not the other way around. _Oh, this is going **really** well so far. You couldn't have waited five minutes and asked her when your cock **wasn't** up her arse?! If nothing else, you're never going to be able to tell anyone (but Dom) how you did it without resorting to fabrication._

 

Unable to ignore the hand Matt had extended towards her, Eleanor stood up and moved back to the bed, but sat near the end, a cautious distance from him. Shrugging on the robe that had been lying on the blanket chest behind her, she toyed with the sash as she spoke. “You... need to know something about me. I've never bought it up before because I didn't think it would ever be an issue between us... and it's not something I ever really think about, anyway.”

 

“Christ's sake, Foxton. You're scaring me. Were you a member of a Radiohead fan club or something?” Matt asked playfully to cover his disquiet, dropping his arm when she didn't come any closer. “It's alright. I know you've repented and, in time, I'll be able to forgive. You were young and impressionable, they brainwashed you; you didn't know what you were do-”

 

“I can't get pregnant, Bellamy,” she blurted.

 

“What?” Matt was blank.

 

“The gross gynaecological details aren't important, but basically, when I was nineteen, I had major girl trouble and there was medical intervention. As a result, my child-production facilities have been disabled. So... no kids for me. Which means that, if you married me, they'd be no kids for you.”

 

Finally realising he still had the condom on, Matt almost fell over in his haste to dispose of it and tug on his previously discarded boxers. This really wasn't the sort of the discussion you had naked, despite the subject. When he was more modestly attired, he sat on the edge of the bed beside Eleanor, near enough to feel her warmth but not touching it. “Never mind me, Rigby love. What about you? That's fucking tragic. I'm sorry. How could you not mention it?”

 

“Because it's not a big deal.” A skeptical eyebrow crept towards Matt's hairline. “Honestly, Bells. I was about fourteen when I decided I didn't want children - and that's not changed - so when it happened, I wasn't very upset about that aspect of it. I don't usually talk about it because it just doesn't matter, and I never, _ever_ thought that it would end up being something I'd _need_ to discuss with you.”

 

“So, even if you _could_ have a baby, you wouldn't want to?”

 

“No. I mean, there's a small possibility I could've changed my mind in the future if it was still an option, but I've never experienced even the _tiniest_ maternal twinge. I have zero interest in procreation. _Or_ adoption.” Rigby couldn't read Matt's shuttered face, and even though she couldn't believe he really wanted to marry her, she was still terrified of him taking it back altogether. _Go figure_. “Ready to retract that offer of marriage in favour of finding more fertile ground to plough, then?” Her tone was joking, but she wasn't.

 

“You're shit out of luck, my barren darling. It's _you_ I love and want to marry, not your ability - or _in_ ability - to spawn, and I've never been too fussed about kids myself, anyway. Chris has enough to cover the whole band, and my brother Paul has already extended the Bellamy line so I don't have to. The only legacy that's ever concerned me is my musical one. So, my offer is categorically _not_ retracted, but I _would_ like to know why we're still using condoms when my sperm is powerless against you.”

 

Eleanor stared at him in stupefied silence for a good thirty seconds, unsure which part of this statement to respond to first. But the rush of relief she'd felt when he hadn't taken it back was undeniable. “'Cause I'm not _that_ irresponsible and you're a known man whore,” was her eventual reply.

 

“Hey!” Matt protested. “I wasn't lying when I said I'd not been prevailing myself of cheap slappers since before we met, you know.”

 

“Okay, _were_ a known man whore.”

 

“That's better.” It was a wonder he could pull off haughty while clad only in spotted underwear, with sex-mussed hair and swollen lips, but he managed it.

 

“But you said in a couple of interviews in 2006 that you _did_ wan-”

 

“Surely you know by now not to credit a word I say to the press? Call yourself a pwoper fangirl.” Matt almost looked _disappointed_. He dusted his hands in dismissal. “Now that _that_ thorny issue has been overcome, and we've established my continued intent to get matrimonial on your arse, are you going to answer me?”

 

Bowie and Mercury dueted in Rigby's head: _Under pressure!_ She needed to be alone for a while, and she needed Muse. Loud. “Your music room is soundproof, isn't it?”

 

“Huh?” Generally unfazed by unprecedented shifts in the conversation, Matt was nevertheless thrown by this. “You know it is. But why-”

 

“You've got to give me a minute here, Matt,” Eleanor pleaded, and when he looked into her eyes, he could see the barely-contained panic he'd glimpsed earlier still lurking there. “I'm going to go in there for a spell, okay? Not long. Then we can talk. Will you wait?”

 

“Of course.” _Don't push, don't push. She's not said no, which is a positive sign; but she's also not said whether she_... Rigby was almost out the door when he stopped her with a simple, “Eleanor?” and he'd never felt more exposed when she gazed back at him and he asked, “Do _you_ love _me_?”

 

Her face screwed up, as if she could hardly believe she'd encountered someone so _dense_. “Well, _duh_!”

 

Matt's smile was smug as she disappeared down the hallway exclaiming, “Daft prick! He had to _ask_?!”

 

It wasn't much, but it was enough for now. He'd _totally_ known it, anyway.

 

***

 

When Eleanor returned less than ten minutes later, Matt, now also wearing a t-shirt (it didn't seem right to him, somehow, to be discussing something this life-altering with your nipples on display), was waiting patiently on the bed, successfully hiding the fact he'd followed her when he'd heard the door of his music room close behind her and pressed his ear to it. Even with the soundproofing, she'd played 'Hyper Music' so loud he'd distinguished it easily. He'd scuttled away before it finished, in case she'd come out straight afterwards, but when she hadn't, he'd gone back, and it'd been replaced by 'The Small Print'. Both _angry_ songs. That couldn't bode well, could it?

 

What Matt didn't know was that listening to those two songs together was a coping mechanism she'd been using for years. The vitriol they contained helped quiet her mind. That the man who'd caused her emotional maelstrom to begin with was singing them was neither here nor there. Muse helped. Muse had _always_ helped.

 

Putting her iPod down on the dresser as she passed, Rigby walked over to where Matt was propped up against the pillows, pulled back the covers and climbed in the bed with him. He automatically made room for her to sit between his legs, and when she did, he gathered her in to rest her weight on his chest as she resettled the duvet over both of them. They were silent as they made themselves comfortable. The contact was reassuring, and Matt was pleased it had been Eleanor who'd initiated it.

 

“You love me,” he stated.

 

“I only consciously acknowledged it less then twelve hours ago, but yes, I do,” she agreed. “Kind of difficult not to, really. It's just I was sure it was an awful, _awful_ idea to be in love with Matt Bellamy, as there was no conceivable way he could _ever_ love me in return, so I suppressed it. Plus I've never been in love before, so I thought that maybe it wasn't real love, but a mixture of infatuation, idolisation and blinding lust.”

 

“And it's not?”

 

“No. I'm certain _not_. Quite, quite real.”

 

Sweeping her hair aside, Matt kissed her neck in appreciation. “Will you tell me when you fell in love with me? D'you know?”

 

“Such ego!” Rigby taunted before admitting, “But it was probably as far back as you playing 'The Groove' for me. I was already halfway there before we met, and after we'd fucked, that just clinched it.”

 

“You really, _really_ like 'The Groove', don't you?!” They both sniggered. “I couldn't tell you when exactly I fell in love with you, but I know I am. Irretrievably so. I only figured it out last Friday, though. Bit slow on the uptake.”

 

“Yeah. For a genius, you're a right thicko.” He just snorted and hugged her tighter. “I don't understand _why_ , Bellamy.”

 

“What's not to love about _you_?” Matt squeezed her hand.

 

“Oh, there's loads of things, but I'm still fabulous. No, I could understand why any other mildly-barmy man would be in love with me, but not why _you_ would. Matt Bellamy can do so much better than the likes of me.”

 

“I doubt that. Rock Star Matt might be able to pull someone skinnier and prettier because of his status, but _I'd_ never find anyone more intelligent, more witty, more of a match for me, than you. And whoever Rock Star Matt ended up with, he'd never be as happy as I am when I'm with you.”

 

Eleanor wasn't offended by the 'skinnier and prettier' part, because it was true. She wasn't delusional when it came to her looks; they weren't how she'd accomplished _this_. “I make you happy?”

 

He couldn't see her grin, but knew it was there by the way her cheek swelled against his. “You have to _ask_?! I'd hardly trail a woman who makes me _un_ happy around the globe, would I?”

 

She scoffed. “Yes, well, I can't believe you didn't know how _I_ felt. Even when I was in denial, I would've thought it was screamingly obvious.”

 

“It was obvious you liked me. A lot. Fancied me rotten, too, as you weren't shy about making that quite clear, just as I wasn't with you. And when we shag, it's always been more than 'just sex'. It wouldn't have felt like that if you didn't feel as strongly about me as I felt about you. So maybe I suspected it, but that's not the same thing as _knowing_ , is it?”

 

“Suppose not,” Rigby conceded.

 

“You going to say it, then? You haven't said it,” Matt nudged, anxious to hear her say the words. It was significant. He was sure he could convince her to marry him if she said it.

 

Her ribcage expanded under his hands as she took a deep breath. “I love you.”

 

Matt tingled all over in delight. Everything would be alright, because Eleanor Foxton loved him. _Ha! Suck on **that** , Howard! _He buried an insufferable smirk in her hair and took a leisurely few seconds to savour his victory. Academically, he _knew_ that Rigby's flirtation with Dom was only a game, and he had nothing to be concerned about, but still... Bells: 1, Dommykins: 0!

 

“Well, if you love me, you _must_ want to be my wife, then,” Matt reasoned. It was all straightforward to him.

 

“Bellamy,” Eleanor groaned. “You know how they say you should never meet your heroes? Because they'll never live up to the ideal you've created in your mind? Well, I think it follows that you shouldn't fucking well _marry_ them.”

 

“What do 'they' know?! And I was never your 'hero'.”

 

“I know you have trouble grasping this, but you were. You _are_. Matt Bellamy has lived up to my ideal. In fact, he's even better than it, but he shouldn't want to marry a woman who owns a 'Matt Bellamy is God' badge!”

 

“Don't tell me what I should and shouldn't want!” His tone was sharp. “Why are you trying to talk me out of- You own a 'Matt Bellamy is God' badge?!”

 

“Oh, yes,” she laughed, Matt's shock priceless. “I don't sport it in front of you, obviously, but I certainly have one.”

 

“I'm sorry, Foxton, but that makes me want to marry you even _more_! And why don't you wear it around me? You can _totally_ wear it around me. I'm getting horny just thinking about taking your top off to find _that_ badge nestled between your tits.” Long fingers sneaked inside her robe and stroked the spot in question.

 

She slapped his hand away with a small giggle. “I'm serious, Matthew. You get off on it right now, but what if one day my fangirl novelty wears off? Because if I married you, I wouldn't stop being a fangirl. Muse are a fundamental part of of my existence. I won't change who I am to make it less awkward for you. Of course my behaviour would adapt naturally from always being around you, as having 24/7 access to the band you fangirl over sort of negates the need for a fair number of fangirl activities, but the Muse devotion won't go. Have you really thought about what it'd be like to be husband to that?”

 

“But that's the you I fell in love with,” Matt replied in confusion. “The only you I know. Why would that suddenly not be what I wanted?”

 

Rigby shrugged helplessly, shoulder blades pressing into his chest. “I don't know, Bells, but it could happen.”

 

“Turn around now, Rigby love. We need to be able to see each others' faces.” They rearranged themselves  so she was facing Matt with her legs wrapped loosely around his waist. He smoothed her hair back and rested cool hands at her neck. She looked very vulnerable, like she had when she was jetlagged, and he hoped she could see the sincerity in his eyes as he spoke. “I love how you love Muse. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, how much you connect with our music; how much what we do means to you. I'd be devastated if we did something as a band to lose that, and words cannot describe how gutted I would be if you stopped fangirling. I love Eleanor, and when you love Eleanor, you love Freaky Fangirl Eleanor. That won't change. Ever. Just as you should never change. Not for me, not for anyone. Because Eleanor and _all_ her personality quirks are spontaneous-hard-on sexy, piss-your-pants funny and potential-fascist-dictator-yet-somehow-sweet-with-it evil. She's off her rocker, but she still _rocks_ , and I know a certain dickhead drummer who would be very jealous indeed if she married _me_.”

 

 _He just told me I was both evil and nuts, and that's still the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me._ Rigby's vision was shimmery with unshed tears, but she was determined not to cry. _Shit, I'm well crap at this emotional stuff._ “Nice speech,” she sniffed.

 

“It was pretty nifty, eh?” Matt winked, his grin crooked. Eleanor rolled her eyes and kissed him to get rid of it.

 

“Mmmm... you taste like wife,” he murmured when she pulled back.

 

“Don't get ahead of yourself,” she warned, running her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip thoughtfully. “You taste like mint. Did you brush your teeth while I was gone?”

 

“Meh. Didn't have anything else to do.”

 

“That was thoughtful of you. But you're always very thoughtful and considerate when it comes to me. Surprisingly so. I never expected it. Then again, I never expected any of this.” Rigby smiled at Matt, and it was the same smile that she had unknowingly ensnared him with when they met; the one that made her hazel eyes dance and dimpled her left cheek so fetchingly. “I think you're pretty nifty yourself, you know. You're my favourite person ever, and you make me _very_ happy.”

 

“Then what are you afraid of?” He questioned shrewdly.

 

She bristled. “Who's afraid?”

 

“ _Eleanor_.”

 

“It's bloody annoying when you get all wise on me, you know.” Matt just tilted his head and waited. “Fine! You win. I'm afraid of commitment. Commitment is scary to me on the same level as the fear one feels when purchasing Muse tickets that the only type you'll be able to get is seated - in the back row. Commitment to a rock star? Where the likelihood of having that commitment shredded and thrown back in your face is that much higher?” Eleanor's fingers gripped Matt's lower back in an unconscious gesture of possessiveness. “I want you _so_ much. But so does everyone else. I'm afraid of that.”

 

His hands clasped her more firmly in response.“You're thinking too much, love,” he admonished gently. “Getting worked up over things that don't need it. You told me you trusted me last week. Was that not true?”

 

“It was. It was!” She was emphatic.

 

“Then you've got nothing to be afraid of. You've already given me more commitment than you realise. If you gave me more, I would never abuse that. Besides, Dom would fuck me up _so_ bad if I ever hurt you like that. And 'everyone' does not want me, and, even if they did, I only want you.” Matt smirked diabolically. “If you want, you can tail me on tour, fending off any birds who try to cop off with me because I'm a rock star with a pointy stick. I'll even have you a special pointy stick made to do it with. Would you like that?”

 

“Shut up!” Rigby poked him hard in the ribs, lip curling.

 

“No, I won't. I'm on a roll. You're going to cave, I can feel it!” He coaxed her into another kiss. When it ended, Matt cupped her cheek and continued earnestly, “You met Kelly, saw her with Chris. Chris and Kelly have been making marriage to a rock star work very well for years, and they do it while being constantly swarmed with an ever-increasing brood of sproglets. Our marriage would be a piece of piss in comparison. Come on, you _know_ we can do this, Eleanor, and it'll be amazing.”

 

“Okay, okay. I'm feeling better about the idea, I am.” Matt's eyes flashed a luminous blue at this, and Rigby ruffled his hair affectionately. _He's much too pretty. How can I resist?_ “But there's still some stuff I need to know before I can make a decision. So, I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want honest answers. Dig?”

 

“Dig,” Matt nodded eagerly. “I'm a big fan of lying, but not when it comes to you.”

 

“Ha. Me, too,” she granted. “Right, interrogation time. Aren't you concerned that we don't know each other well enough to get married?”

 

“Don't know each other well enough?” He gaped. “No, I am not concerned about that. We've known each other for five months now, and spent, like, one and a half of those months living in very close quarters, and the rest of the time conversing non-stop. We don't know everything, but we know enough. And I've always thought it was retarded to know _everything_ about someone before marrying them, anyway. I mean, what are you going to talk about after the wedding?” Matt's brow furrowed as he contemplated this. “Better to leave some things still to discover. Much more fun that way.”

 

“There's a peculiar logic to that. And my parents had only known each other three months before _they_ got hitched.”

 

“Exactly! They've been together... what? Twenty-”

 

“Twenty nine years. Still all over each other, too. Mortifying when you had mates 'round as a teenager - nipping into the kitchen for a snack to find your father groping your mum against the fridge.” Eleanor smiled ruefully. “The same thing happened when I was home for Christmas!”

 

“See!” Matt was superior. “We'd be like that. I'm going to be a dirty old man, you can bet on it. Always trying to get my hand down your support stockings.” He leered mischievously, running a single finger up the inside of her thigh.

 

She relocated his hand to a safer location. “You'll be like one of those naughty old geezers from 'Last of the Summer Wine'! D'you know that's why Penny calls me 'Nora'? After that nasty old battleaxe Nora Batty whose granny knickers they're always trying to get into on the show. She reckons that's who I'll be like when I'm old.”

 

“Result! Nora Batty's hot. Her head scarf and stern demeanour make me drool.”

 

They shared a look, and that was all it took for them to both collapse into giggles. Hugging her close, Matt nuzzled his face into the angle of her jaw and inhaled. He'd never met a woman who he could laugh with like he could with her, and she smelt like... “Home. You know you smell like home to me, Rigby, don't you?”

 

Eleanor's giggles subsided into a sigh, and she turned her head until her lips brushed his ear. “You always know what to say to make me melt, Bellamy.”

 

“I'll guarantee you weekly verbal meltage, Foxton. Thrice weekly for the first year of marriage. I'll get one of the band's lawyers to write up a contract. It'll be nice and legal. If I'm in default, you'll be entitled to compensation.”

 

“That won't be necessary,” she replied, rubbing her cheek on his shoulder as she searched for another way to delay the inevitable. There were so many things she _thought_ she needed to know, they were cancelling each other out. “Would you be expecting me to not get on my flight home tonight and stay if I did say yes?”

 

“I know I can be a right selfish bastard, but I'm not totally unreasonable.” Matt rolled his eyes in exasperation and Rigby had the grace to look sheepish. “I know you have a job, responsibilities; goldfish that need attending to.” He grinned as he remembered being introduced to Eleanor's four goldfish: Stockholm, Syndrome, Citizen and Erased. “You go home, and I'll follow in a couple of days, once I've sorted things here. I'll stay for as long as I can, and if I have to make a few trips back and forth, I will. We're not making a proper start on the new album until after V, so I have some time until we have to prepare for South America. Anyway, I know this can't happen immediately, so I'll come to New Zealand, we'll spend some more time together - if you're really fretting that we don't know each other well enough - you can start organising yourself to immigrate and we can plan the wedding. You'd want to have it there, wouldn't you?”

 

She nodded jerkily, so touched by all that he was willing to do for her.

 

“Of course you would,” he burbled on. “And it's fair, too. To your family. I'll be stealing you, after all, so the least I can do is accommodate them. Besides, everybody I know will jump on the excuse to go to New Zealand for a holiday - Dom'll be polishing his snowboard as soon as he finds out - and it'll be way more private.”

 

“You know, I think my parents would be over the moon to have me stolen by you.”

 

“Really?!” Matt's wonky tooth made a fleeting appearance. “Wouldn't they hate me for taking their beloved youngest daughter to the other side of the world?”

 

“Well, you're fucking _loaded_. Parents like that,” Rigby deadpanned. “But _my_ parents are Beatlemaniacs, and _your_ dad has played with the Beatles. As long as you can get him to tell Lawrie and Beth all about it, they'll be stoked. Also, if I was married to you, there's a distinct possibility I may, at some point, meet Paul McCartney. They'd probably _pay_ you to take me.”

 

“Let's call them now!”

 

“Calm down! I haven't finished with the questions. Where would we live? Here?”

 

“Here if it suits you. Italy while we're making the album, as that's where the studio is, and I still have the villa there.” Matt seemed uncharacteristically timid as he asked, “And maybe... Teignmouth? Some of the time.”

 

“Teignmouth?”

 

“I've been thinking about getting a house there since Mum moved back to Devon,” he answered, eyes soft. “Now that I'm older, it's not as repellent as it once was, you know? And with another baby on the way, it would be good if we could make it as easy on Chris as we can by doing all the writing and rehearsals close to Kelly and the kids, before we have to decamp for the actual recording. Would you mind spending some of your time down there?”

 

“Not at all,” she reassured, the tension easing slightly from Matt's shoulders. “I did go on a trip down there when I lived in the UK, and it kind of reminded me of home! Rugged, but picturesque. I liked it a great deal.”

 

“Yah!” Matt clapped gleefully as he felt himself move one step closer to winning her over. “And I promise we'll go back to NZ as often as possible, okay? We can buy a house anywhere in the country you fancy.”

 

“We'll see,” Eleanor said cagily. But then she took Matt's fidgeting hands, and felt something shift within her as his exquisite fingers entwined with her own. _These fingers are **yours** now, Foxton. Don't you want to keep them?_ Gulping, she hoisted a cheeky smile on her face. “More questions?” _Everything about you resonates happiness..._

 

“Hit me with it!”

 

“Will you... take me to the _NME_ Awards and then look the other way while I 'accidentally' shove Pete Doherty into a wall?”

 

“Ooh, it would be an _honour_.”

 

“Can you arrange for me to meet Alex Kapranos and then not get mad when I start dribbling and try to hump his leg?”

 

“Yes... but then a thousand times _no_.”

 

“Seems reasonable,” Rigby hummed. _'Cause there's no one like you, in the universe..._ “Will I still be permitted to flirt outrageously with Dom? It's really fun, you see. I don't want to have to stop.”

 

“If you must,” Matt grumbled. “Howard would whine like a bitch if I told him he wasn't allowed to any more, anyway. The libidinous swine thinks you're _wonderful_ ,” he added sulkily.

 

“It's mutual.” She clamped a hand over his mouth before he could say anything in retaliation. “What d'you think I'd be doing with my time if we _were_ married?”

 

Matt swiped her palm with his tongue and then pried her hand away to respond. “What? Apart from supplying me with cake and fucking me into incoherency? Will you have any time left?!”

 

“ _Bellamy_.” Wiping her palm distractedly on his t-shirt, she retook his hand. _I thought I was a fool for no one..._

 

“Sorry. You'd still want to sew, wouldn't you? I know you love what you do. Obviously you couldn't have a normal job, as you'd not be able to come on tour when you felt like it or when I wanted you to join me, but maybe you could start your own business? Then you'd be your own boss and wouldn't have to answer to anyone if the urge to live the rock 'n' roll lifestyle overcomes you.”

 

“I've always wanted to have my own curtains and interiors business. You'd... help me with that?”

 

“Gladly,” he beamed. “And we won't be full-on touring for more than a year, so you'll have heaps of time to get it up and running before you have to start sodding off all the time.”

 

 _Controlling my feelings for too long..._ “Well, you've just got this all planned out, haven't you?”

 

“Must've been thinking about it without _knowing_ I was thinking about it.” Matt wriggled with impatience. _I'm Matt Bellamy. When I ask someone to marry me, they should agree. There should be grateful weeping. Instead - because I've chosen the stroppiest, stubbornest, most recalcitrant woman I can find - I get questions, endless questions... and the heart-clenching foreboding of being refused._ Maybe the old adage about getting what you deserve was true. _But what did I do to deserve **this**?! _

 

“... me endlessly?”

 

“Hmmm?” He surfaced to find Rigby staring at him intently, her lovely face wearing an expression he'd never seen before. His thumb caressed down the side of her hand to press against the pulse in her wrist. It sped erratically fast.

 

“You'll love me endlessly?”

 

“Oh,” he breathed softly. “Definitely. Never give you up.”

 

“And Matt Bellamy _really_ wants to marry me?” _So confused, when you're lost in the groove..._

 

The mobile Matt had dumped on the bedside table when they'd first stumbled into the room sprung to life as he nodded fiercely.

 

_… Don't close the door_

_On what you adore..._

“Dom?!” They both yelled. Matt growled viciously, diving to silence the phone. Eleanor was quicker, snatching it from under his hand and answering the call, the lyrics meaning more than ever before.

 

“This is about my tattoo, isn't it?” She asked Dom as she planted herself decisively back in Matt's lap. “Howard, you are _so_ predictable. Kelly told me she told you, but I didn't think you'd be calling this soon.”

 

Matt was livid. Did that fucker not remember what had happened _last time_ he'd pulled this stunt?! _It'd be **justifiable** homicide, surely?_ Dom's voice was a drunken bellow, so he easily heard him complaining that it wasn't fair that he hadn't seen the tattoo and demanding she take a photo and send it right this minute. Also, why didn't the drummer have her number? He was about to grab the phone and give Dom a bollocking when the twat shut up long enough for Rigby to speak again.

 

“I'm actually happy you did call, Dominic. I have news.” Eleanor squeezed the hand she was still clasping and leaned forwards until her lips were hovering against Matt's, the mobile still at her ear. “You'll never guess. The frontman of Muse asked me to marry him.” _Could be **glorious**..._

 

As Dom yelped incredulously down the line, the couple stared into each others' eyes from as close as you could get. _When Matt Bellamy asks you to marry him_ , she thought as the last tiny protesting voice in her head died a swift, ignominious death; drowned in that hypnotic blue, _you agree. Besides, no one else is allowed to have him, so best make it official, eh?_

 

“And I said ' _yes_ '.”

 

Dom's celebratory roar was cut off as Matt terminated the call, threw his phone across the room and kissed her. It felt somehow _smug_ , and when he gazed at her afterwards, his eyes were bright with self-satisfaction. Oh no. He'd _won_. She'd never hear the end of it. What had she let herself in for?! Rigby started cackling, utterly overcome by everything that had happened in the last twelve hours.

 

“I knew it,” Matt declared complacently, ignoring his fiancee's involuntary laughing fit as he pushed her on to her back and undid her robe. He was all relief and inexpressible joy, and actions spoke louder than words. However... “You're going to be my wife... does that mean we can do it without a condom, then?”


	9. Epilogue

_August 2008 (Dublin, Ireland)_

****

**_Stars when you shine, you know how I feel..._ **

****

Eleanor was at a pitch of high excitement as she darted around the backstage area of Marlay Park, sticking her nose in everything and getting in the way of the crew. It’d been four months since she’d been to a Muse concert, and she was out of her little fangirl mind with jittery anticipation. That she was married to the lead singer of Muse barely mattered. Merging Muse Matt and Husband Matt in her mind was a task she was still grappling with, and she hadn’t the time for it now.

 

She’d tackled Matt to the couch in her enthusiasm back in April when he’d told her that the support act for the Dublin show would be Kasabian, breathlessly exclaiming, “I fucking _love_ Kasabian! You are _so_ getting laid, Bellamy!” and had been singing ‘Shoot the Runner’ under her breath constantly since their arrival in the city the day before. Kasabian and Muse on the same bill? That alone was enough to make her a happy woman. But she was also ecstatic at being reunited with Matt after almost a month apart - Muse having left to tour South America straight after the wedding while she'd stayed in Wellington to prepare for the move to the UK - and had a sneaking suspicion she might just be afflicted with the famed 'newlywed glow' she'd been so scathing of when single (not that she'd be admitting that to _anyone_ , especially Matt).

 

Idly running her fingers over Matt’s guitar rack as the man himself talked technical with The Kirk - finding herself observed with great suspicion by the guitar tech Jason - the freshly-minted Muse spouse looked up as a man with shoulder-length brown hair wandered over to the catering table in the corner. It was Tom Meighan of Kasabian.

 

“Oh, oh, oh!” Eleanor muttered to herself, shamelessly switching from Muse fangirl to Kasabian fangirl. “Be cool, be cool,” she hissed, earning a startled glance from Jason. “Try and not embarrass the crap out of yourself, Mrs. Foxton-Bellamy.” Saying that didn’t help, as every time she said, heard, wrote, read or even _thought_ the name, she started giggling manically. Pinching her thigh in reprimand, she shook her hair back and sauntered over, desperately trying to look unimpressed.

 

Tapping the man on the shoulder, Rigby grinned widely as he turned around holding a sandwich and gazed at her enquiringly. “Hiya,” she gabbled. “Sorry to disturb. Just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Eleanor, Matt’s... wife.” An odd, high-pitched noise escaped her at this, but he was polite enough to ignore it.

 

“Fuckin’ great to meet you, love.” Looking surprised for a split second, the singer then smiled warmly at her, ditching the sandwich and taking her hand to shake it firmly. “I’m Tom, and I’m bloody chuffed to be here. Playing with Muse is a real honour.”

 

“That’s so nice of you to say. But they’re lucky to have you here. And so am I. I’m a big fan. Saw you guys at the Big Day Out in Auckland last year, and you rocked so hard, you just pissed all over everyone else there! Apart from Muse, of course,” Eleanor replied at speed.

 

Tom let out a bark of appreciative laughter. “In that case, it’s even more of a pleasure. Matt has superior taste in women, I see.”

 

“Cheers!” Eleanor snorted. “I’m just sorry I’ve never seen you at your own gig. I was kicking myself that I didn’t have the brains to get tickets to the solo show you did there, and I haven’t had the opportunity to catch you since.”

 

“Please! You’re making me blush,” Tom cackled. “The rest of the lads are here somewhere. Did you want me to go get them? I’m sure they’d be delighted to meet _you_ , sweetheart.”

 

“If you wouldn’t-“

 

“Oh, God,” a voice interrupted from behind Rigby’s back. “Who let you near Kasabian unsupervised?” She glared at a mischievous Matt over her shoulder, who blithely ignored the warning glint in her eye and nabbed her around the waist, smirking at a bemused-looking Tom. “I see you’ve met the missus, mate. I’m so sorry. Someone should’ve warned you in advance.”

 

Eleanor elbowed him in the ribs sharply as Tom stifled a guffaw. “No need to apologise, man. She’s a charmer. I’m hoping we can get back to New Zealand soon if they have more women like her _._ You _are_ a Kiwi, aren’t you, Eleanor?” He directed at the distracted woman.

 

“She is,” Matt answered for her. “They certainly breed them unique down there, eh?” And he beamed so brightly at Rigby that she left off scowling at him with an exasperated eye roll, instead placing her hand over his as it rested on her hip. “It really is wicked to meet you,” she said earnestly to Tom. “Your music is just... fucking awesome, quite frankly. Can’t wait for the new album. And winning over 20,000 people here to see Muse isn’t going to be easy, but I’m sure you’re more than up to the job. I’ll be in the front row, having it.”

 

Matt shook his head indulgently at Eleanor’s rambling. “She will be, too. First class mosher. Word of advice, though.” He leaned towards Tom conspiratorially. “Keep Serge away from her. Not that I don’t trust him, of course. It’s just that Rigby here fancies the arse off him, and I can’t guarantee she won’t try and jump him. Very little self-control, my wife.”

 

Tom roared with laughter while Rigby let out an outraged yelp, blushing hotly. “If you’ll excuse me, Tom. Me and the husband need a word. Talk to you later, hopefully.” She threw a smile at the Kasabian frontman before grabbing Matt by the belt and hauling him away.

 

Chuckling to himself, Tom had picked up his discarded sandwich and was turning to go find the others when Dom strode in and caught his eye. Joining him, the drummer snaffled a Heineken and tipped it his way in greeting.

 

“So, I just met Matt’s wife,” Tom told him after they’d traded a manly handshake. “She’s certainly something else.”

 

“Eleanor?” Dom grinned. “Yeah, she’s the best. Keep trying to get her to ditch Matt for me, but she’s stupidly fond of him.”

 

“A man’s got to try, doesn’t he?” Tom responded, giving up on the sandwich and taking a beer for himself. “How long have they been married, then? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

 

“They’ve only been hitched for a month,” Dom informed him, peering over to where Matt and his wife - that was a fucking _mind-wrecking_ concept right there - were engaged in a heated but affectionate discussion in the shadow of the travelling case of the former’s piano. “The whole thing’s been kept very quiet.”

 

“Why’s that, then?”

 

“You know how our fans are quite devoted?” Tom nodded at Dom, smirking. “Well... when she met Matt, Eleanor was one of them. Did you not notice she’s wearing a Muse t-shirt?”

 

“I didn’t, no,” Tom said, glancing around to where Eleanor and Matt were huddled and registering the small logo on the back of her top. “She was a fan?”

 

“A hardcore one. Still is, at that. I remember her saying something about there being ‘no reason to give up such a gratifying addiction just because you’re doing your dealer’,” Dom answered, taking a large swig of his beer. “It would probably cause a bit of a stir if it got out that Matt was hooked up with a Muser, yeah? And Eleanor especially wanted it kept under wraps for as long as possible so she could still watch gigs from the pit. A lot easier to fangirl it if nobody knows you're actually legally bound to the band's frontman.”

 

“But how did Matt end up married to a Muser to begin with?” Tom queried, taken aback.

 

“They met in a bar in Australia after a show last year and things just snowballed from there,” Dom explained with a shrug. “But you’d be wrong if you’re thinking it’s an ego thing on Matt’s part - having his own personal fangirl to feed it 24/7. The shit Eleanor gives him, it's a wonder he has any ego left at all. And they’d be the first to admit that it’s pretty unconventional, but it's love, so what can you do? You saw for yourself how they are together. I know an ideal couple when they’re staring me in the face.”

 

“Hmmm... I see what you mean,” Tom replied contemplatively, twirling the bottle in his hand. “They’ve not known each other very long to be married, though.”

 

“Had to so Eleanor could stay in the UK, but they wouldn’t of if it wasn’t right. Man, I am _not_ going to tell you what they were doing when Matt asked, though!” Dom chortled. Damn, he still couldn't believe it himself. _Smooth, Bellamy. **Smooth**! _ “But yeah, the wedding was only a month ago in New Zealand. We went on tour in South America straight afterwards, and she couldn’t come, so this and V is sort of like their honeymoon. Plus it's Eleanor's birthday on Friday and her idea of a really fantastic present is apparently a Muse concert, so it’s worked out well.”

 

“Riiight! What was the wedding like, then?”

 

“A ragingly good time, actually!” Dom reminisced. “Ceremony was on the edge of a lake in the South Island. Gobsmackingly gorgeous setting. It was the middle of bloody winter there, so everybody was freezing their tits off, but it was worth it. Eleanor had a full-on dress with a red train that she’d designed herself, and she looked stunning, but she was wearing stripey long johns and red Converse underneath! I love that girl! She’s got style. But d'you know the Datsuns? That hard rocking New Zealand band that tours the UK a fair bit?” The mirthful singer indicated he did. “Well, Eleanor's choice of wedding song was an all-out headbanger of theirs called 'In Love' - played at full volume. Matt was so grateful she didn't want Muse that he offered to get the actual band down there to perform it live - we met them on the Big Day Out in '04. Great blokes - but she said that wouldn't be necessary, and even let him choose the music to be played while they did the paperwork with the celebrant. And instead of going for Rachmaninoff or Palestrina like she thought he would, that soppy bitch Bellamy picked 'Just Like Heaven' by the Cure!”

 

“Oh, the whole thing is classic,” Tom managed, shaking with suppressed hilarity. “But somehow so _appropriate_.”

 

“Isn’t it?” Dom smiled. “But it was also just really lovely. Not showily 'romantic', but... _heartfelt_. And then there's the reception! An indie disco/unashamed booze-up in a nearby town. God, everyone was _so_ hammered. Fuck do those Kiwis know how to drink! It was huge fun. Matt even danced! Matt _never_ dances. _I_ danced with Eleanor’s sister, Penny, more than once. She’s a bit of alright, too. Might try and get better acquainted with her when she’s over at Christmas,” he finished with a significantly raised eyebrow.

 

They both laughed loudly at this, gathering their drinks as they started walking back towards the dressing rooms.

 

Rigby looked around at the noise. Matt and her had moved through a half-joking argument to trading barbed insults for the thrill of it to just bantering with customary speed, and she was well past her original mild indignation at him for taking the piss out of her in front of Tom; but she'd muttered, “Now that you’ve put the idea in my head about Serge, it doesn’t sound like such a bad one...” at one point, purely for watching the fleeting flash of concern on Matt’s face.

 

“The ride. The ride. I'm looking for a woman to give me the ride,” Matt whispered in her ear, sniggering as she abruptly turned back to him. “Ha! Knew that’d get your attention. Never met a woman more fond of a damn hard _ride_ than you, wifey dearest.”

 

Shifting into his waiting arms, Eleanor's fingers automatically moved to play with the plectrum pendant at his throat. She'd found it on a market stall back in Wellington, and given the insignificant little thing to him as a joke wedding present after she'd carefully written the words ' _Property of EDF-B_ ' on the back in minuscule silver letters. Matt had fallen about in hysterics when he'd opened it, sliding it on the chain he always wore and not taking it off once since. He was _so_ whipped (a fact Dom had apparently reminded him of on a daily basis while they were in South America).

 

“You only married me for the riding,” she pretended to huff. “And stop making wife-related remarks. You know it weirds me out. I am _not_ giving you the ride in the dressing room, anyway. Chris will know - he always does when anyone's been up to no good - and give me that look of his; the one that makes me feel like a five-year old who’s just been caught putting the cat and the dog in the linen cupboard together to see if they’ll make friends. I don’t know how he can pull that fatherly disapproval thing on me when I’m less than three years younger than he is!” Her brow wrinkled in irritation. “Besides, we’ve no time for a pwoper ride now. They’ll be opening the gates soon, so I’ll have to head down to the pit. Which reminds me - I need to get the right wristband so I don't give myself away.”

 

“Why can’t you watch from the side of the stage like a normal rock star spouse?” Matt questioned as per tradition, slyly sliding his hands down her back to cup her arse and then manoeuvering her so she was pressed back against the flight-case.

 

“You know I don’t like it there. The sound’s inferior and I can’t see you properly. Once you go barrier you never go back,” she stated firmly. “Not having to queue for eight hours to get there makes it even better.” Rigby ran her hands through his hair. She adored it black, but his natural colour was rich and warm, and it was so soft she couldn’t resist touching it.

 

“Bizarre creature,” Matt complained, face nestled in the crook of her neck. “Sure there’s no time for a ride, though?”

 

“Absolutely sure,” Eleanor answered with a tug on his hair for emphasis. “Mmmm... it’ll be even better if we wait, anyway. You know how horny you get after playing a gig; how horny _I_ get after _watching_ you play a gig. Plus I’ll’ve been moshed and more than likely rained on, and you know how you like it when I’m all rumpled and a little bit dirty.”

 

“I _do_ like that,” Matt admitted, sniffing under the angle of her jaw and sighing. “You’ll smell even more delectable than you do now.”

 

“Exactly,” Rigby whimpered as Matt nibbled softly at her throat. “Listen to Eleanor for she is wise and all-knowing. And you can stop that,” she lectured, whacking ineffectually at his back. “Go channel your nervous energy into something wholesome for once. Muck about with Chris’s kids for a while. Then go get something to eat. I want you to have a proper dinner. And make sure Dom has one, too.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Matt conceded, backing off slightly to take her face in his hands and give her an indulgent kiss. “I do still have a few things I need to sort out, and I’m kind of hungry, now you mention it. Ugh. Always right, infuriating woman. Just you make sure you get nice and sweaty for me down in the pit. I plan to do many obscene - possibly-illegal-in-the-Republic-of-Ireland - things to your fangirl self as soon as possible afterwards.”

 

“Promises, promises,” Eleanor sing-songed, patting his cheek patronisingly. “Sod off, then.”

 

“Sir, yes Sir!” Matt replied with a crisp but sarcastic salute. “Find The Kirk. He’ll have the right wristband and know when it’s time for you to go outside.”

 

“Oh, husband!” Rigby fawned coquettishly. “You do take such fine care of me.” She skipped around him and headed off in search of the elusive Kirkleton, pausing briefly to shoot a cheeky wink back at Matt. “Think I’ve just got time to find Serge after I talk to Tom...”

 

***

 

Leaning against the barrier in a blissed-out daze ten minutes after Kasabian had left the stage, slightly rain-soaked but otherwise peachy, Eleanor was woken from her reverie by ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ emanating from her pocket; just breaking past the hum generated by the crush of excited people around her and the filler music pumping out of the PA system. Wiggling her hand down to extract her phone with difficulty given the confined space, Rigby bought it to her ear, pushed the answer button and scolded, “This really isn’t a good time, blondie.”

 

“Oh hush, Rigby darling,” Dom chirped. “You know the sound of my voice gives you chills; anytime, anywhere.”

 

“Sure it does,” she scoffed, pressing the phone tightly to her ear to prevent said voice escaping to the surrounding people, many of whom knew it well. “Was there something you wanted? Or are you just practising your flirting on me until my sister gets here?”

 

“I-“

 

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you perving on her at the wedding,” Eleanor overrode him, glancing around nervously.

 

“Fine,” Dom pouted down the line. “I won’t deny it. Penny Lane Foxton is fit and I plan on taking a crack at her. You got a problem with that?”

 

“Not at all. In fact, it might interest you to know she just broke up with her boyfriend. But may the Force be with you. Lord knows you’re going to need it,” she teased.

 

“Ooh, a challenge! I can’t wait. Now, there is a reason for you having the privilege of speaking to _the_ Dominic Howard so close to such an auspicious occasion.”

 

“And what’s that? But keep your voice down, for Christ’s sake!” Rigby pleaded.

 

“Calm the fuck down, Rigby. Nobody’ll click. Right, I’m undecided on the trouser front and need your opinion.”

 

“Alright, you great big girl, you. What are the colour options?”

 

“We have blue. We have green. We have yellow. And we have black, but that’s really not a viable choice,” Dom listed.

 

“Well, not green,” Eleanor pondered. “You wore green at RAH. And no, definitely not black. So that leaves us the yellow and the blue. Which is tighter?”

 

“See! This is why I came to you,” he chuckled. “The yellow is more, shall we say, snug?”

 

“Yellow it is, then. The chicks’ll dig it.”

 

“As will you, Mrs. Foxton-Bellamy!”

 

“God, don’t call me that! But I _am_ a woman and I’m not blind, so of course I’ll enjoy it. Can I go now, please? Muse will be on soon, and I don’t know if you’ve heard, but they’re pretty fucking incredible. Can’t be wasting my time on the likes of you.”

 

“You say the sweetest things, Eleanor. Thanks for your valuable assistance. Anyway, Matt’s bugging me to talk to you, so I’ll just hand over to him.”

 

“No!” She hissed. “That’s a really bad idea right now. Don’t-“

 

“Don’t what, Rigby love?” Matt purred, and Eleanor groaned in frustration, leaning forward over the barrier to try and get some distance between her and all the potential prying ears.

 

“Are you _trying_ to get me lynched?!” The frazzled woman demanded.

 

“Don’t be absurd, wench. You’re no use to me in pieces,” Matt responded equably. “I just wanted a word with my wife, who cruelly didn’t give me a good luck snog before she disappeared to scream in a suspiciously sexual way over men that aren’t me.”

 

“Oh, you poor thing,” Rigby mocked, grinning despite herself. It sometimes frightened her how easy it was for the smallest thing he said or did to make her buzz with happiness.

 

“Alas, I am most harshly treated,” Matt sighed melodramatically. “Having fun, then?” He asked in his usual naughty tone.

 

“You know it. Kasabian _rocked_ , and fuck me if the new songs aren't fucking _epic_. Tell them so for me.”

 

“They were great, I agree. Tom’s a killer frontman. So lairy. But what did you think of Glasvegas?”

 

“I don't know, honestly, Bel-” Eleanor stopped herself, checking behind and to the sides to see if anyone was paying particular attention to her conversation. It didn't _seem_ like it, but still... “Think they might be a grower.”

 

“Huh. I'll convince you yet. Anyway, I actually wanted to let you know about something so you weren’t surprised later on.”

 

“What’s that, then?”

 

“We’re dropping ‘Blackout’ from the setlist,” Matt told her plainly.

 

“Oh, no! Why? I was so looking forward to it.”

 

“I know you were, Rigby love,” Matt soothed. “But the weather’s too shit for the heliospheres to go up and we don’t want to play it without them.”

 

“Nobody cares about that. They just want to hear the song,” Eleanor protested.

 

“ _We_ care, so no ‘Blackout’.”

 

“Ah, I know you do. It’s not my place to interfere,” she relented with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

 

“You’re not interfering, Rigby love. And I know you’re disappointed. I promise to play it for you when we’re back home, alright?”

 

“Really?!” She breathed, startled.

 

“Really,” Matt giggled. “So... aren’t you going to check what I’m wearing tonight, then?”

 

“Is it red?” Rigby enquired hopefully. “And tight?”

 

“Clever girl. Yes, I’ve decided on my red pants and red shirt. They’re not quite the same shade, but it’s close enough. I’ll go out with my Matticus on - I can’t believe you’ve got _me_ calling it that, by the way - to start with, though, as it’s a bit chilly.”

 

“Mmmm... sounds nice,” she responded dreamily, stomach twitching at the thought of all that lusty fever-inducing redness. “Be sure and leave a few buttons undone when you take the jacket off, won’t you? Two girls carrying a New Zealand flag ran past me to the barrier earlier and I swear I recognise them from Christchurch last year. I’ve got all kinds of respect for anyone who’d come all that way for Muse, so I want you to give them some saucy memories to take home with them, okay?”

 

“Yes, boss!” Matt crowed delightedly. “You’re a fucking _special_ woman, Eleanor December Foxton-Bellamy. I love you,” he continued seriously. “You do know that, don’t you?”

 

Suddenly choked with emotion, Eleanor gulped several times as her surroundings faded away and it was just her and Matt. “I do. I still don’t understand _why_ , but I do,” she said hoarsely. “And I know I never say it - haven’t said it, now it occurs to me, since the first time - but I hope _you_ know that I love you, too. That I am so in love with you that if I think about it too much, it makes me want to hurl, it’s so intense. I just... want to be sure that you know as well.”

 

There was a moment of silence from the other end of the line. “I know,” Matt replied gently. “But it’s ace to hear it now and then... Even the assertion that I make you want to hurl is strangely touching.”

 

“Oh, shut up, you complete scoundrel,” Rigby half-laughed/half-cried, practically doubled over the metal fence in front of her. “Wasn't it Thom Yorke who once sang, ' _You make me sick, because I adore you so_ '?”

 

“And to think I went into this _knowing_ I'd be taunted with Radiohead jibes for the rest of my life,” Matt mused thoughtfully. “Anyway, Dom’s been making gagging gestures and trying to get his phone back in a bid to end this apparently _sickening_ bout of sentimentality for the last thirty seconds, the heartless cad, so I'd better go.”

 

“That’s the last time I give _him_ fashion advice, then. And he can stay the hell away from my sister,” Eleanor rasped, rubbing at her tear-blurred eyes. “Off you go and give him a sound thrashing for me, Bel- my man.”

 

“Your wish is my command, darling wife,” Matt smarmed. “We’ll put on a blinding show for you, Rigby love. See you straight afterwards, yeah?”

 

“Of course, darling husband. Why would I want to be anywhere but with you? And you’ll be fucking spectacular tonight. You’re never anything but.”

 

“Damn right!” Matt declared cockily, hanging up with a cackle.

 

Shaking her head in feigned disgust, Eleanor straightened up and inveigled her phone back in her pocket. A blue glint caught her eye, and she raised her hand to examine her combined engagement/wedding ring in what light was available as dark descended over the park. A white gold band, it featured a sapphire surrounded by tiny diamonds in the shape of a star. Matt had designed it himself, claiming it had special astronomical significance; but she’d been more concerned with the engraving curling it’s way around the inside when she’d taken it off to look at it more closely at the reception-

_Please always break my fall, but don’t ever break my heart._

 

Feeling like the jammiest cow on the planet, she’d hastily excused herself to the bathroom, where she’d proceeded to sob quietly in a stall for five minutes solid, overwhelmed by her good fortune and the love that permeated every fibre of her being for the enigmatic pixie of a man that had placed the ring on her finger. Then she’d pulled herself together, fixed her face in the mirror and headed back out to find her _husband_ and party her arse off.

 

A foolish grin plastered to her face at the memory of dancing drunkenly with Matt to Queen's 'Somebody to Love' (she seemed to recall seeing Dom with his arms around Penny on the dancefloor at some point around this time, but it was so hazy, she couldn't be sure, and Penfold wasn't giving anything away), Rigby was startled when a lilting Irish voice spoke up loudly from immediately beside her.

 

“That's a beautiful ring you've got there. Are you long married?”

 

It was the same woman whose side she'd been pressed against for the last couple of hours. She looked a similar age to Eleanor herself, and, as they were both here, they probably had lots to talk about, but they'd not exchanged anything more than vague smiles up until now.

 

“Um, about a month,” Rigby informed her warily.

 

“Well, that explains the endearments I overheard you - sorry about that, kind of unavoidable - whispering, then!” The stranger's smile was friendly and didn't seem _that_ suspicious. “Your husband must be quite something. What's his name?”

 

Bellamy being described as 'quite something' - a _staggering_ understatement - made Eleanor giggle, and she thoughtlessly answered, “Matthew,” before she could stop herself.

 

“Matthew?!” The woman blurted even louder, causing heads to turn. “That's a mad coincidence, so it is.” She fell silent, and Rigby watched in mounting horror as she appeared to be adding two and two together and coming up with Muse. If she'd heard that part of the phonecall, she'd heard everything on Eleanor's end. _Please let me be wrong, please let me be wrong..._

 

“You know, there's been the sketchiest of rumours circulating since RAH that our own Matthew is involved with someone from New Zealand.” She was loud. _So_ loud. “And that this someone might even be a Muser. No one knows any more than that, though. But I think you said something that implied _you_ were from New Zealand. Your accent certainly backs that up. So, _are_ you a New Zealander?”

 

Eleanor nodded dumbly, doubting denial would work at this point. The self-confessed Kiwi did a shifty scan of the surrounding people to see a number of intrigued faces now directed towards her. Under the light layer of moisture that had settled over her head and shoulders in the misting drizzle, she started to sweat.

 

Suddenly developing claustrophobia, Rigby pulled frantically at her jacket collar to get some air; darting eyes registering her Irish interrogator's gaze dropping to her chest soon after. _Oh, Eleanor, you complete **fucktard**_ , her mind shrieked as she swiftly realised why. _You just exposed your 'Access All Areas'-emblazoned backstage pass, didn't you? Incriminating much?!_

 

“I knew it, I knew it!” The unfortunately canny female's volume had increased to deafening levels as the satisfaction of making such a discovery trampled any discretion she might have had. Eleanor screwed her eyes shut, clapped both hands over her ears and slumped forward over the barrier. There was her plan to remain incognito for as long as she could blown to fucking _smithereens_ , then. A measly month married, and in a couple of hours everyone would fucking well know! _Dumb arse, Mrs. Foxton-Bellamy. **Total** dumb arse! You shouldn't have answered the phone when you knew it was Dom in the first place!_

 

“... talking to Dom, weren't you?! Coloured jeans and RAH! And then Matt. Because you're married to him. He's not just involved with a New Zealander, he's feckin' _married_ to one! And you wouldn't be down here with us if you weren't a major fan. You're a Muser and you're MATT BELLAMY'S WIFE!”

 

_Oh, bugger..._

 

**_It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me_ **

**_And I'm feeling good..._ **

**The End**


End file.
